Into the Mystic
by Melusine10
Summary: Surrounded by people but feeling alone at the AVL's annual gala, Godric finds himself taking a strange and unexpected hike into the desert. This story is sensual, sweet, and hopefully uplifting. Enjoy and please remember to leave a review!
1. Chapter 1

**Into the Mystic**

The cotton candy hues of the New Mexico sunset had faded into a twinkling carpet of stars. Cars now stretched across the desert road in a thin line. Entrance into the park is at a slow creep. Security is, not surprisingly, very tight. Vehicles are checked – sometimes twice. Badges are inspected. Purses and coolers roughly searched. The American Vampire League's Annual Desert Jamboree is _the _event of the year. It is one of the few public affairs where human and vampire celebrities alike can rub shoulders, hobnob, and trade business cards.

Out of the coffin but still incredibly elusive, tonight is an entirely unexpected opportunity for Roslyn Murray to meet one of the most influential Vampire Americans in the county. She has a meeting with Nan Flannigan herself. Exactly fifteen minutes to persuade Ms. Flannigan that the AVL should back her vision of national education reform. Ros wants to help vampires pursue university schooling if they so choose; to do that she needs the AVL to lobby Congress for better loan and funding opportunities. Currently, only humans qualify for federal aid and contrary to popular belief, not all vampires have vast, unimaginable wealth. Many were quite poor and rampant discrimination made securing a job difficult. So, exactly fifteen minutes to try to change the world for the better.

Inside the AVL's private tent, much to Ros' relief, the presentation goes fairly well. Nan appears impressed with her proposal, albeit noncommittal. She leaves with a watery assurance that Nan will follow up and she's given the contact information of a lobbyist in D.C. It seems promising, but the mountain still lay before her. Ros shoos the fluttery anxieties out of her mind. She wants to relax and enjoy this infamously bohemian party. By all accounts, tonight is supposed to be something between Carnivale and a Vanity Fair Oscar party – glamorous but intimate, a little (or very) shocking, and most definitely entertaining.

Booths are set up on orderly rows around the main tent, which seems unpleasantly packed with people. Ros avoids it in favor of the marketing displays, soaking in enthusiastic pitches about vampire businesses or the latest vampire-friendly products. Several eager reps try to give her flyers or goodie bags, but she politely declines. Beyond the main drag is another row of tents, these full of carnival games and rides. She leans against a railing to watch a merry-go-round with its woozy music and undulating horses, painted in a riot of colors and sparkling gaudily with mirrors and glass. Further down the line she buys a sugary confection and then purchases a billowy silk maxi dress in a shop selling imported trinkets from around the globe. The elderly man who takes her money is kind enough to let her use a makeshift dressing room in the back to change. She tucks the pantsuit she was wearing in a plastic bag and her waist thanks her for being freed.

The throngs of people thin out toward the edges of the fête and Ros appreciates how casual folks seem here. She joins a group listening to a drum circle. They lounge about on benches and blankets, chatting to each other or dancing to the pulsing, punctuated rhythms of the djembés. Several men make shameless passes at her and she ignores them impatiently until they give up and wander off. For the most part, it is hard to tell who is vampire and who is human. She likes that. Here, in this austere place transformed by lights and sounds and smells, people can just _be _together. No labels. No rejoinders.

Ros is suddenly distracted from her thoughts by a boy. In a sea of laughter and smiling faces this boy – a handsome young man really - sits by himself at a distance from the revelers, eyes vacant, shoulders slumped. He is eerily still and though his mouth is sensually curved like a bow, he is not happy. His whole being seems clouded with an aura of discontent. He glances at a tall blond man that passes by. The blond is dancing with a bottle of Royalty Blended in each hand. For a second Ros thinks she sees something change in the young man's appearance, but it is gone in an instant.

Without thinking, she pushes herself off the ground and goes to him. Hopping onto the boulder where he is perched, the crunch of loose gravel under her hands announces the intruder to him. He does not react to her presence, so she turns to him.

"What's wrong?" she asks, voice thick with concern.

He barely moves a fraction in acknowledgement of her. Ros places a sympathetic hand on his arm. The cuffs of his white dress shirt are neatly rolled up to his elbows. He balks, stunned at her audacity, at this transgression. He looks at the offending hand in horror, but can't find the right words to explain it.

"You don't want to be here," she says. It isn't a question.

He doesn't so much as blink in response. She runs her hand up and down his arm several times, spreading her heat and scent over his forearm. The young man stares mutely at her hand, bewildered that a human would dare touch him so freely. He should be furious. He tries to remember why that is the case.

"You did not care for it when those drunk men invaded your space," he finally says. It comes out a little more coldly than he intends.

"You saw that?"

"I see everything."

_I have seen everything_, he seems to say.

"Hmm. Could have fooled me. He's the only thing you've noticed all night." She juts her chin at the blond. He is surrounded by a throng of guests vying for his attention. Somehow the disheveled bowtie unfurled around his collar only makes him more attractive.

"Looks can be deceiving," the younger looking man replies cryptically.

Ros doesn't really know all that much about vampires, but she knows enough not to assume. "He is…yours?" she guesses.

The slight press of his lips and a passing flicker of pride in his face is all she needs for confirmation. In spite of his studied mask of indifference, he cannot suppress what Eric is to him.

"A son…" she wonders aloud, appreciating the magnificent specimen in the crowd. He is gorgeous, nevermind the pink stain of spilled blood that stripes his shirt.

The vampire next to her narrows his eyes.

"You are observant." He doesn't say 'for a human,' but he might as well have. The words sting in her ears, unspoken.

"I am going for a walk. Join me, if you like." She slides off the rock and dusts off the bottom of her new dress.

The invitation is jarring. Wrong. He suddenly connects his piercing gaze with hers.

"I am the most dangerous thing in North America."

It is meant to be a threat.

It is probably true.

And he says it with a soft-spoken voice that is more than a little tragic.

Ros puts her hands on her hips. "Oh? Well. I'll be safe from the scorpions and other critters then." She gives him a pert little smile and starts off alone into the desert.

There is already a considerable distance between the din of the party and herself when she starts to think he won't join her. He chooses that exact moment to materialize at her side.

"Took you long enough," she chides, trying to hide the start he gave her. "Let's go as far as that rocky outcrop, yes?"

He cocks his head. "You're not afraid to go off alone with a strange vampire?"

"Not _any_ strange vampire," she retorts.

He stops dead in his tracks, wary of a trap. Still, she smells clean – no trace of silver or wood on her, no scent of vampire other than his own on the palm of her left hand.

"Do you know me?" he asks, his tone accusatory.

"No. Do you know _me_?" she replies haughtily.

There is no hesitation in her response, nor does her heartbeat speed up. She is being honest, he reasons, if not incredibly naive. He doesn't know her. He could leave now and never know her. Part of him wants to take her out there and hurt her, maybe push her down into the sandy ground, just to prove a point. But then he isn't sure whose point it is. The thought fills him with shame. He turns towards the place she has chosen in the valley and inhales a slow, measured breath. They are upwind. Nothing in the air indicates an ambush. They will be alone, together.

"Fair enough," he sighs.

Ros snatches up the young man's cold hand and starts off. He stares at their joined limbs in disbelief, allowing himself to be led forward. _Predator!_ he shouts at her in his mind. She merely looks back over her shoulder at him with a kind smile.

"C'mon!"

They walk in companionable silence, although the steady sloshing in her veins and her deep breaths of the cool, arid night are noisy to him. After a while she drops his hand and threads her arm through his elbow instead. He supposes it must be more comfortable for her. It is not altogether unpleasant for him either.

"There are coyotes there, maybe a half mile northwest," he points out. He knows she cannot see through the inky darkness. "Shall I protect you from them?" he adds, the slightest bit of wry smile snaking across his mouth.

"That depends. What are they plotting?" she whispers playfully.

"Nothing. They are sleeping."

"What are they dreaming, then?"

At that, his smile grows, ribbon-like.

The underbrush grows unexpectedly thick and prickly. Ros gathers her skirt around her tanned thighs and ties it into a knot.

"Here," he offers, putting an arm under hers to help her hop over an especially nasty bunch of cactus.

He keeps track of where she has touched him, where he has touched her. Mentally he composes a cartography of scents mingling, exchanged. She of rosehips and mirth, he of vetiver and time.

"Sorry. I didn't think it would be a challenging walk." She treads more carefully than usual, concerned she might scratch her ankles and accidently provoke her companion.

They reach the rock formation. It is taller than they expect and the smooth planes of the rust and red stone are still hot from the sun. Ros presses her face against its windswept surface, stretching out her arms. He imitates her in curiosity. The warmth seeps into his skin and he decides he likes how embracing the earth feels.

They meander the area, exploring. She finds an abandoned bird's nest and they peek on tiptoes at the forsaken speckled eggs. He finds a geode broken in half, revealing the violet crystal structure hidden inside. He gives her one half and she slips the little treasure into her bag.

The moon continues to climb high into the sky, flooding their private canyon with gentle light. The young man is examining the contours of the rock wall when Ros is struck by his alarming beauty. Her heart must falter, because his head snaps back in her direction.

"Do you like music?" she asks.

"Some of it. I don't really care for loud things."

"No, I don't suppose you would." She pulls out a shiny rectangular object from her purse.

"Would you mind?"

"It's a cellular device?" he asks warily.

"Yeah, but it plays music too." Ros calls up a Van Morrison song. Carefully, she puts the phone into his shirt pocket. The oxford cloth is immaculately pressed, but now has orange dust smudges from where he lay against the rock. She brushes at them lightly, tidying him. Where the white fabric pulls against his muscular shoulders, she can see he has tattoos. She wants to know, but can't imagine asking.

"Will you dance with me?" she asks instead.

"I don't know the steps."

"Sure you do. We'll make them up. They're right here." She points to his chest.

"You must know that our hearts do not beat. Nor do organs contain human passions."

"I wasn't pointing to your heart, silly."

He raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Traditionally monsters are thought not to possess souls."

"It's also a tradition that most people are total idiots, my friend."

He snorts a laugh and pulls her easily into his embrace. They sway lightly to the music, spinning each other before settling into a slow rocking rhythm. Ros rests her head against his shoulder and sighs with a hum.

"You're very old, aren't you." It is not quite a question.

He hesitates before nodding, his chin brushing in her thick chestnut hair. The woman's rich and heady aroma floods his senses and can't quite will himself to block it out.

They dance to several more songs, all of which are older than she by years. He is musing about possible reasons why she carries around music from the early 1970s on her portable telephone when the last song ends and she pulls away.

"Thank you." She curtsies playfully. "Thank you for sharing with me."

"My lady," he replies solemnly, bowing deeply. He questions what he has actually shared with her. What has he given that merits thanking? He wants to give her a compliment, he decides. Something honest and true.

"Your eyes are very beautiful. Like they snatched a rainbow right out of the sky. I think you have every color in there." He leans down to peer in her eyes. She blushes and looks away, nervously tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn't know that he had been rolling that tendril between his fingers as they danced, rubbing her oils into his skin so her natural perfume would stay there for a week, at least. He wishes he could better put into words how she appears to his preternatural vision. 'Prismatic,' he is about to say, but she speaks first.

"Yours are like sage brush or the sea. I can't decide which," she confesses.

"Sage brush?" He has never heard eyes likened to shrubbery before. He considers the idea and decides that he likes it. Sage is sacred, hardy, aromatic. It is found virtually everywhere and it is ancient. It is even useful - to humans.

"Yes, like sage I think. But your skin is even more striking." She boldly runs her fingertips down his arm. "It's opaline. Luminescent. Like it is made of the moonlight itself!"

He shades his gaze behind heavy lids and thick lashes. His skin is increasingly translucent, more truthfully, and every vampire who recognizes it for what it is regards him uneasily.

"Sorry. Did I say the wrong thing?"

"No. It's just…I have not fed in a very long while," he admits impulsively. He couldn't say why he felt compelled to share such a deeply private thing. As soon as the words pass his lips he regrets them. Now she will be fearful of him as she should have been all along or – he shudders - she will proposition herself like a blood whore and it will ruin this strange encounter for him. Either would certainly spoil whatever fleeting appetite he might barely feel. So it comes as a surprise when she does neither.

Instead, the woman starts hunting about until she finds a spindly patch of poppies.

"May I?" she asks him, bent over her knees.

"May you what?"

"Pick this?"

"Why ask me?"

She wrinkles her brow in thought. "Well, for one, I think it is illegal. Or maybe that's just in California? But more because it is yours."

"Is it?" he asks with a breathy laugh, perplexed and fascinated by her.

"Of course. You are part of all of this," she gestures to the expansive vista, then to the canopy of sky overhead. "This…_wonder_." She closes her eyes as if she can feel it.

He shrugs, unsure.

She snaps the flower at its base and returns to him, a slight breeze twisting her hair around her face. She replaces her phone in his shirt pocket with the yellow blossom, patting it in securely. "There you go. So you remember."

He catches her hand before she can move, trapping it over his silent chest. Over the place where she accused him of having a soul.

He stares for a long moment at the delicate curve of the petals and then at the delicate curve of her mouth. He assumed she would pluck the gift for herself. He cannot remember the last time someone gave him something so simple. So necessary, his mind supplies.

"Together we flow into the mystic," he whispers, recalling the lyrics of her old music. He brushes his lips over her knuckles, leaving the ghost of a kiss there and she breaks into a smile that reaches all the way to those entrancing hazel eyes.

"See? I told you that you weren't seeing _everything_." She gives him a teasing pinch on the chin. "You should press it in a big book of poetry when you get home. That way it will always be in bloom."

"Does it have to be a book with poems?"

"Oh yeah, I'm pretty sure it does. Otherwise it loses its magic." She winks.

"Witch," he hisses teasingly.

"Mage," she retorts.

He rewards her with a shy, lopsided smile that erases the millennia from his haunted gaze.

"Good. We should probably get back, huh?" She gently extricates herself from his grasp and turns to leave, but he hesitates.

"Wait," he calls after her. In a blur he is standing before her once more.

"Hmm?"

"Did you truly want my company? Such that it is?"

How could someone be simultaneously so earnest and apologetic, she wonders?

"Of course. It was perfect."

"May I ask for something in return? You are not obligated to say yes."

"Okay."

"May I have the honor of drinking from you?"

She takes a step back. "I didn't come out here for that. I mean, I'm not that kind of woman. I've never even done that before."

"I know. I can tell. It is why I ask. You are the only reason I would even consider asking."

She fiddles with a tassel of her purse nervously, a bevy of questions swirling in her mind.

"You know, there's a lot of crummy people who come to this thing hoping for exactly that sort of experience."

"Why do you think I was so miserable..."

"Well, I think it was more than that, but I see your point. Incidentally, I only came to ask for the AVL's support. They are interested in my teaching work."

"Oh?" He should tell her they are a sham, an organizational front. He'll consider mentioning it later, once this is played out.

"Yeah. I'm trying to help out young vamps."

He laughs. "And the elderly as well, it would seem. So? What do you think about giving an old man a much needed pick me up?" He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"Errrr…Well…"

He shakes his head, chuckling at himself. He never quite pulls off such hammy flirtatiousness as well as his child. He tries a different tactic.

"You know, in the old days we didn't stand around arguing with our meals, asking them what they wanted." He takes a step toward her, straightening his posture and allowing his ancient omnipotence to roll off him in waves. It is a power play, executed with supreme dexterity.

She swallows thickly. "And how, pray tell, would you have done this back in the old days?"

"I could tell you. Are we doing 'this' now?"

"I don't know. Answer me first."

He gives her a heated look and his pupils flood open, hungry. It's not a simple task, allowing her to truly see him but restraining his influence. He does not want her glamoured. He wants _her. _Raw and uncomposed.

He steps even closer.

"In the old days, I would have pushed you against that canyon wall and fed from you, deeply, trapped between the chill of my immovable flesh and the heat of the sun still set in this valley's stony bones. I wouldn't have asked and you wouldn't have thought to say no."

He traces a finger down the throbbing pulse in her neck. A trail of gooseflesh rises in its wake.

"And if you were receptive to it – and you would, I think, have been open to the idea - I would have taken you, roughly, until there was no more pleasure to be wrung from your gorgeous, tight little body."

"I would have been caught between a rock and a hard place, so to speak," she manages to breathe shakily.

"Mmm."

Her teasing loosens something in him he hadn't realized was coiled so tightly. He is suddenly conscious of how absolutely ravenous he feels. She bites her lip nervously, unaware of just how much this excites him, invites him closer. A nagging thought tells him he's getting dangerously carried away, but it snaps it away angrily.

_Yes_, his whole body screams. Give into it; chase this feeling down. Feast upon it!

Yes, like that, he thinks. The idea throbs in his throat. He can't tear his eyes off her and the thought aches in tune with her pulse. He quickly allows it to win. Oh yes, he wants her, he decides. And he'll have her, thrumming.

Into him, onto him, over him, out of him.

She raises up a wrist upturned - an offering with consent. He shakes his head slowly.

"Not there."

His nostrils flare widely to better draw her mercurial, complex aroma deep down into his chest.

Inhale, exhale.

They stand so close they can feel each other's breath. Hers warm, his cool.

'Where?' she mouths silently, eyes wide.

"Oh, look!" he says in surprise, pointing to something behind her. She goes to spin around and he strikes. He is so fast she barely registers the movement.

"Ah!" she cries in shock, though she felt nothing. She feels…_him. _

Cool lips and tongue and blunt teeth kiss and suck and scrape at her throat. It is the pleasure of a lover's mouth.

"Oh…" she gasps.

He winds his fingers in the ends of her hair and tugs lightly, arching her back and forcing her chest more fully against him.

She groans unwittingly, melting into his embrace. He is everywhere, caressing her hair and her curves and her face.

All too soon he withdraws, leaving her breathless. He wraps a hand around the back of her neck, letting two fingers fall over the tiny wound, compressing it.

Her vision is hazy with lust and her lips are parted, all too tempting. He steals a searing kiss, discovering her hot mouth with long, desperate passes of his tongue. She returns the kiss just as feverishly and when she bites his lip and moans, he actually goes weak in the knees.

"You taste divine," he confesses.

"That can't have been enough," she pants into his mouth.

He leans back to see her more clearly.

"Oh," he licks his lips with an impish smile. "I'm not finished."

The words zing through her, electrifying. She lets her head fall back against the hand that braces it and closes her eyes. He strikes the wound again, this time with more force. As he does he pinches a nipple through the gauze of her dress. The sensation distracts her brain, drawing her attention away from the inevitable sting of his bite and confusing one for the other.

She laughs in realization. "Mmm, ohhh…you are good, mister!" She slides her hands into his hair, loving the roll of his head as he ravishes her.

He lets out a rumbling chuckle into her neck, feeling more like himself than he has in ages. "Yes, I am," he boasts, keeping a tongue pressed against the punctures. He toys with them, these beautiful marks he's made in her skin, letting her blood flow down her neck so he can lick it in long stripes. Each time, she reacts. The kisses set her body alight in a bonfire of erotic tension.

Altogether too indulgently, he deepens the bite just a smidgen more and sucks hard, drawing in a mouthful of blood. He holds the wound closed while he leans back and slowly lets the fluid glide down his throat in a thin trickle, savoring the pleasure of it and drawing it out as long as possible.

He is reluctantly sealing the wound with his saliva when she giggles.

"When did we end up on the ground?" He looks around, baffled. He's flat on his back in the dirt and she's astride him.

"Haven't a clue."

"I thought you said I would be the one being pinned down?" she teases.

"Impertinent wench!"

"Wild satyr!" she shoots back.

He lifts her to her feet and dusts her off, giving her backside a swat for good measure. She twists out of his light hold and skips off to retrieve a shoe that appeared to have fallen off, forgotten.

They make their way back to the gala hand in hand and are nearly there when he halts and spins her to him. He inspects the bite mark he's left on her, running his fingers over the twin dimples. It is already starting to bruise.

"Does it hurt?"

"It's fine. It's kind of tingly numb."

"It will be dark purple by tomorrow," he laments. "It's how I feed." He's never been one to ram his massive fangs in people and just slurp it down in one go. He liked to play, using only a fraction of their razor sharp length. There was more finesse in it, certainly more pleasure in prolonging the experience.

"Well," she shrugs. It seems pointless to worry about it now. "Everyone has a style, no? Yours definitely works."

His face darkens. He does not like her words. He does not want to think about other vampires' disgusting habits and…her.

"Never let anyone else drink from you."

She scoffs.

He grabs her by the arms. "I am serious. Promise me. I want it to only be me."

"Hey! Jealousy doesn't suit you. Come on."

He swallows, unsure how to explain the anxiety he feels.

"Promise me! And while we're at it, don't you _ever_ go wandering off alone with a vampire again. _Never_," he gives her a little shake as if to punctuate his point.

"Seriously?" she asks, astonished.

"Promise!" he orders.

"Fine. I promise."

She doesn't understand him. He has to make her understand. He panics.

"I want to heal it," he blurts out. "Let me heal it…"

He has sliced his tongue and is kissing her throat before she can respond. Before he can register his own actions. Before she comprehends the claim.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, both stunned by the other's behavior. He hasn't let go of her hand. At the edge of the party, he kisses her shoulder and her sweet mouth one last time.

"Thank you," he whispers. His cheeks are flushed pink and it makes him look deceptively young.

"Anytime." She nuzzles him back and plants a kiss on his nose.

"Be careful what you wish for, as they say."

She smirks and straightens his flower, relieved that it didn't get too crushed in their fun.

"Don't forget. A big heavy poetry book."

He nods. "So it's always in bloom."

She leaves him with a wink and a toss of her hair.

Moving through the crowds, she passes by the tall blond. He's no longer double fisting expensive drinks, but now has two women, one tucked under each arm. She doesn't see the blond's head snap in her direction as she walks by, or how he dumps the women to the ground as he whips to his feet. They both cry in protest and one angrily splashes her drink on him with a curse.

Near the main tent, she picks her way carefully through the throngs of people, avoiding the shadows where the party has clearly grown a bit louche. For some reason, several of the vampires she walks past are weirdly twitchy and quick to step out of her way. Her fingers automatically go to the vanished spot on her neck and she pulls a curtain of her hair around to cover it, just in case. She can still feel his mouth on her and it brings an irrepressible smile to her face. She might be grinning like a loon for weeks, she reckons. She is almost to the gate when a massive figure materializes before her, blocking the exit.

"Excuse me." She looks up to see the hulking blond.

His brow is deeply furrowed and he looks her up and down gravely, searching. He goes to say something but is at a complete loss for words. He then reaches for her, but he retracts his hands, leaving them hanging awkwardly mid-air.

"I said excuse me," she repeats testily.

"Whatever you're paid I'll double it. No. I'll triple it."

"What?"

"How much does your agency pay? I'll give you whatever you want if you come to Dallas with us."

"Agency?"

"Donors Anonymous? Elite Bite?" he guesses.

She shakes her head, confused.

It is then that he hits him full force. It's not just his maker's scent all over her. He smells his blood. And her blood. Mingling. In a flash he flips the hair away from her neck. He blinks once, then twice, in stunned recognition.

"How…"

"You're not making much sense, buddy. Maybe you've had a little too much supermodel tonight."

He ignores her and presses his large hands together in a plea.

"Please. Whatever you said, whatever you did to get him to drink. Please tell me."

"We just talked. Not about that. About other stuff."

"And then he fed, just like that?"

"Sort of. You live in Dallas? Christ, that's probably part of the problem…"

"Wait, he _told _you he hasn't been eating?" he asks in utter disbelief.

He shakes his head in astonishment and throws his arms around her, trembling.

"Ow!" she gasps. "Let me go. You're squeezing too…" She thumps his back with a fist futilely.

"You are literally my favorite breather in the entire world. Gods, woman. _Thank _you."

"You're welcome, I guess?"

"I am eternally in your debt. On my honor, anything…"

She has no idea that his word is his bond. He starts to explain when something distracts him in the crowd.

"Shit. Here, quick, before he catches me. Give me your number."

"Why?"

"Godric is terrible about phones. He refuses to have one."

"Who is Godric?"

He dips down to inspect her eyes, expecting to find the traces of a glamour there.

But there is none, only clear, unusually pretty hazel eyes.

"Oh you have got to be…this is perfect. Just perfect! Are you telling me that you managed to convince him to feed after nearly a year of starving himself and you didn't even bother to ask his name?!" he bellows.

She feels sheepish. "It didn't come up."

He is literally ready to rip his hair out over his maker's antics. Of course he'd choose some equally maddening woman. Like two peas in a freaking pod.

"And let me guess. He marks you as his and doesn't even worry about getting your number."

"Marked me? No, he healed…"

"Give me your number woman!" he barks impatiently, throwing a glamour into it.

The information tumbles out of her effortlessly and he types the numbers in with lightening fast thumbs.

"Name?" he glances up, still holding her in his thrall.

"Ros. Roslyn Euphrenia Murray."

"Fantastico." He releases her from the compulsion. "I'll have Godric call you soon."

"Okay. That would be nice." She hitches her purse on her shoulder, ready to get out of the desert and into the clean sheets in her hotel room. The hulking blond is already strolling back into the crowd when she remembers something.

"Wait!" she calls out. "What's your name?"

He spins wistfully on his heels and comes to a stop with a little hop.

"I am Eric Northman, Son of Godric and Sheriff of Louisiana Area 5. At your service."

He nods and bows, arms held wide. Then in a flash he is gone, vanished into the sea of partygoers.

That goofy smile returns to her face again with full force, so insistent it practically hurts her cheeks. Yes, it would definitely be there for a while.

* * *

**A/N: **What did you think? Please, please leave a review. Reviewers get a slow dance with Godric and Eric's undying dedication. ;)

The playlist on Ros' phone was as follows:

Van Morrison, "Moondance"

Van Morrison, "Into the Mystic"

Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young "Helplessly Hoping"

The Moody Blues, "Nights in White Satin"

Procol Harum, "Whiter Shade of Pale"

Bob Dylan, "Girl from the North Country"


	2. Chapter 2

Godric stares at the ripples his swirling toes spin out in the pool's surface. He is sitting at the edge of the diving board, uncaring that the cuffs of his jeans are soaked. The opulent pool house is lit only by the underwater lighting system and his movements send chaotic ribbons of light dancing on the ceiling overhead.

"You are hovering, Eric."

It isn't untrue, Eric knows, but he isn't sure what else to do.

He has come to Dallas nearly every chance he can escape work. This is the third time this month. Each visit he has invariably found his maker lost in thought, contemplating the pattern of wood grain across a table or the shadows cast by a flickering candle. It's not that Godric is neglecting his duties as Sheriff; he simply engages nothing and no one in his free time. Occasionally, Eric catches him with one hand resting over his mouth, gently inhaling a now long since faded scent. At least then he can hazard a guess at where the Celt's inscrutable mind has wandered.

Eric avoids the topic altogether. He doesn't even know how to begin that discussion. He tried once, the night after the gala. Godric responded by raising a single, terrifying finger in warning. The threatening gesture was accompanied by a shock of command so ferocious he swore it was still ricocheting through their preternatural bond. It left him chilled to the very bone. Henceforth, Eric has stuck to safer conversational terrains.

"I need your input on someone who's moved into my area." It isn't a lie, but it's also clearly an excuse.

Godric sighs and sluggishly gets up from his perch. He takes the file in Eric's hand as he walks past without looking at him.

In the mansion's massive oak paneled office, Godric flips through the various papers half-heartedly. He pauses over a section of the residency application before continuing. It's the same bit of information that also gave Eric reason to doubt the subject's honesty.

The blond waits patiently, studying the room's décor to pass the time. Though his maker and his small retinue had occupied the estate since assuming control of Area Nine, the place had remained virtually untouched. The previous sheriff had held some bold and downright questionable Texan aesthetics. After four years, however, it was beginning to irk Eric that his maker hadn't refashioned the house to his liking. Or, more to the point, that he hadn't ditched it altogether. The community's need for reassurances of continuity had long since passed. The area was one of the most stable in North America and Godric was, not surprisingly, revered and staunchly defended by his subjects. Now the outdated and ugly schema just seemed offensive and at odds with the quietly extraordinary vampire living here. Perhaps he'd arrange to have it conveniently burned to the ground the next time the residents were out of town. It wouldn't be the first time he'd taken fire to one of their domiciles in order to solve a problem.

"I'm surprised Isabelle hasn't redone this room." Eric winces at the grotesque stuffed elk head looming over the oversized fireplace. Its beady glass eyes did nothing to lend it a simulacrum of liveliness. "It's absolutely dreadful."

"What makes you think Stan isn't the in-house talent?" he asks drily. The Viking erupts in laughter, relieved to see at least a hint of Godric's humor.

"Isabelle's been busy," he continues, unconcerned. He types a bit of information into his laptop to crosscheck it and hits 'enter'. "Besides, I do not view my subordinates as free interior decorators." He gives a sidelong glance at his child.

"What?" Eric says innocently. "Pamela cannot be stopped, you know this. I'd happily offer you her services if I thought she could be trusted not to transform this place into a shabby chic nightmare."

"It might look nice."

"For some reason you've never struck me as a chintz and gold kind of man. It didn't really work for you in the 18th century either."

The loving jibe elicits a rare, raspy chuckle from the sheriff. "Yet I'm told metrosexual is the new dandy. Or is that already out too?"

"Inconclusive. I believe they want to be called hipsters now."

"Hmm," he murmurs, eyes skipping over the text on his screen.

"It involves a lot of second hand clothing, unfortunately." The thought of donning fabrics covered with hundreds of strange scents involuntarily sent shivers down their spines. "We could pop into Duncan Quinn to have something made to suit us. It's been years since we've had a bespoke date," he suggests, trying not to sound too eager.

"New York is…" _Inconceivable, _he seems ready to say. "…a no."

Like many of their kind, they'd gone a bit wild during the excesses of the '80s.

"They have a shop in L.A. now," Eric tries, as though this was actually an alternative.

Godric narrows his eyes.

"Oh c'mon. It's chockablock with beautiful girls and boys. They all reek of desperation and hunger. You used to…"

The ancient vampire abruptly slams his fist over the file and swivels back to his child with a sharp, precise twist.

Eric blinks, quickly tabulating all the details of Godric's sudden violent reaction. He isn't displeased, exactly. Just agitated by their inconsequential banter. Disinterested in doing things they used to enjoy. The bitter pinch of frustration in Eric's throat ratchets up his bloodlust several degrees. It makes his fingers twitch. He toggles a steel ring he wears on his middle finger in concentration. He's had the gift from his maker nearly his entire undead life and it calms him. Each twist brings his mind into increasingly sharper focus.

"This Compton is definitely a spy. That much is obvious," Godric declares in a frighteningly gentle voice. His mood swings are bewildering to the uninitiated.

"Yes," Eric drawls slowly, thinking. "It's almost as if the Queen wants me to know I'm being watched."

"I agree."

"But why? I thought we were clear on our arrangement." The last problem Eric wanted at present was a high profile title and all the bullshit that accompanied having to defend it. Of course, having two ancient vampires – maker and progeny, no less – living anywhere in such close proximity made everyone nervous. Alas, it couldn't be helped.

Godric settles back in the overstuffed leather office chair. It gives a creaky moan in protest. He mindlessly pinches the inside of his collar and runs the tips of his fingers down the placard of his pale linen shirt, unaware of his own beauty and how inviting the action seems.

Eric rolls his ring again.

"He could just be dimwitted," Godric ponders, unconvinced. "The way he describes wanting to return to his homestead - no self-respecting vampire speaks with such archaic English grammar."

_Accommoda et prosperabitur_. Adapt and thrive. It was the basic tenet of the vampire species manifesto.

"You should have heard his ridiculous accent during our interview. The bastard happily chattered away about how he'd spent the better part of the last 25 years in London. Never once let slip with a British colloquialism. He's purposefully fashioning himself as some Southern gent holdover."

Godric lifts up the photocopied image of a tin type attached to the application and raises an amused eyebrow. Eric can only shake his head in consternation. The whole thing smacked of inexperience.

"I'm giving the States another couple decades. If they can't get it together by 2040, I say we chalk this up to a failed experiment and move back to the continent."

"It could be misdirection, child."

Eric groans and tosses his hands in the air. Of course he'd considered this. "Any fool can smell the stink on Rhett Butler here. How do you propose I handle him?"

The brunette nods. "Keep him close. Who do you have at your disposal to tail him?"

They discuss trivial details for the next few hours, never veering back to more personal matters.

~~~O~~~

Eric returns to his Shreveport nightclub the next evening feeling no less apprehensive about his maker. To make matters worse, he arrives to find a parcel on his office desk. It is a large box, taped to a fare-thee-well at every corner and seam. It reeks of an unmistakable scent.

He swears under his breath.

The tall Viking vampire is entirely unfamiliar with failure. Eric Northman is not simply one to get results: he is accustomed to getting his way exactly as he chooses, when he desires it, and as he sees fit. These missteps and minor catastrophes were beginning to feel like a house of cards stacked around him, threatening to fall at a misplaced breath. Allowing the fragile architecture of his world to come undone was not an option. This situation is entirely un-fucking-tenable.

Out on the Fangtasia dancefloor, Pamela flinches as she hears the inevitable crash in Eric's office. She's been anxiously awaiting it since she heard him slip in through the staff entry. In the pulsing din of club's music, only the vampires present hear the roar of furious curses that follow.

She lazily makes her way to the back hallway, trying not to raise alarm among the supernatural patrons. She finds Eric sitting amongst a flurry of green paper. The bills of cash are still fluttering down around him like snow.

He is officially at a loss. "What does this human _want_?"

Thus far Eric had sent Roslyn Murray a bevy of gifts as tribute: jewelry, several different automobiles, entire lines of designer clothing. All of it was sent back to the retailers without a single word. It was disheartening enough to receive apologetic email after email from upset curriers and shopping assistants who thought they were to blame and were terrified of losing an A-list – and V-list - client.

The substantial addition to Ros' savings account had actually been one of his first contributions, but apparently it had only just been noticed. Even in the thick of his anger, he couldn't help but appreciate the woman's audacity. Unable to trace the carefully obscured account numbers from which he'd wired the money, she had the nerve to withdraw it and send a little over a half a million dollars through the U.S. postal service. Unregistered, nevermind uninsured.

"What can I do?" Pamela offers without any hint of her usual snark.

"Pick up this mess and put it into a blind trust for her."

"I'm already on it. Maybe it's time to contact her directly?"

"And say what?"

"She had to look up the club to send this. Use that?" she suggests.

He pinches his brow and pulls himself together. Sometimes he can't believe he waited as long as he did to turn a child. But then, no one could fill Pamela's shoes quite like her. She was a brilliant businesswoman and as crafty as a fox. "That's my girl," he murmurs as he presses an appreciative kiss on her forehead. In a flash, he is gone from the club.

~~~O~~~

At high noon the sun is baking its heat into the Shreveport asphalt and only the cicadas bother to stir and whine in complaint. It's hotter than hell in northern Louisiana this time of year and every A/C unit on the block is churning overtime.

The deafening screech of an alarm clock pierces through the thick haze of Eric's daytime slumber. He blindly slams it off with a hand and forces himself to sit up. It's disorienting and slightly nauseating to wake at such an unnatural hour. After chugging a glass of reheated blood, he feels clearheaded enough to dial Roslyn's number. Few causes would have him up and running around during the day, but his maker's well-being was certainly at the top of that very short list.

Her phone rings for a time and goes to voicemail.

He dials again. There is no response.

He punches redial with determination. Still no answer. A thin stream of blood begins to find its way out of his left ear.

And so he tries again, this time thumbing the touch screen with unnecessary force. "Answer," he commands, as though he could bewitch the technology.

It continues to ring.

He's about to leave a tart message when he hears a tinny voice on the far end of the line.

"This had better be an emergency."

"Well hello to you too, Ms. Murray."

There is a pause on her end. She quickly pieces together the identity of her unknown caller.

"It's Dr. Murray and I'm in the middle of a meeting."

"That's no way to greet a friend," he purrs.

"I wasn't aware we were on friendly terms. I need to go."

He smiles to himself. He likes the rhythms of her lively riposte.

"And yet you've been Google stalking me. No need to be coy about it. I just received your package."

He crosses his legs, smoothing out the silk of his pajama pants. "So, I take it you found our webpage. What do you think of my little empire in the south?"

"It looks trashy, to be perfectly honest."

"Oh, certainly. Nothing less would please the humans. But it's very successful. Would you like to see it in person? I can arrange a flight…"

"Absolutely not," she says flatly.

"Your words wound me, Ros. I must tell you, I am equally hurt that you have rejected my attempts to care for you."

She sucks in a breathe of air. He pulls the cellphone away from his ear, readying himself for the inevitable. Perhaps he's let her stew over this too long.

"Inundating a perfect stranger with useless stuff is _not _caring for someone!" she blasts. "It's not even in the ballpark of 'care'. It's no surprise that a playboy like you doesn't get it. You can't just buy people or…whatever you're trying to do!"

"Playboy? Hmm. I haven't been in _Playgirl_ for decades, if that's what you mean," he retorts, purposefully misconstruing her words. Flirtatiousness is a habitual fallback for him, regardless of appropriateness. "I'll admit the mustache was a bit outré, even for me, but then..."

"Eric…" she warns, cutting his inane musings short.

He switches tactics with dizzying efficiency. "Do you realize how rare it is for me to _want _to help out a breather? Your kind break so easily, so quickly. You should be flattered to have me in your debt."

"Charming. Really charming," she huffs. "I don't understand this obligation you seem to feel toward me, but I can tell you it is truly, deeply misguided."

"Then tell me how to look after you, milady," he says as sweetly as possible, pouring a heavy glamour into his voice.

"It's not your job to look after me!" she retorts.

Eric rolls his eyes. He still couldn't influence people by voice alone as his maker could, but it was worth a try. Maybe he'd gain the ability in another hundred years. For now, it amounts to yet another failure.

Ros is about to continue deriding him when she's interrupted by what he assumes is a colleague. A hand rustles over the receiver to muffle the conversation. She's unaware that he can hear every inconsequential word.

"Sorry. What was I saying?" she says when she returns to the phone.

"You were presuming to tell me about my duties and my desires, about which you know precious little of either, I'm afraid."

"Right. You are not my keeper. Please stop sending me things I haven't asked for."

"Then ask me for something you do want."

"What I want is for you to stop…"

"Giving you things? Fine. Message received."

"Good."

"Alright."

"Okay," she says, determined to have the last word.

An uncomfortable silence crosses the line, punctuated only by the sound of him sniffing back a trickle of blood.

"Aren't you supposed to be asleep?"

"Yes."

"Care to explain why you're up in the middle of the day?"

"To call you, of course. Unless you prefer that I wake you at 3am? I needn't remind you that it's not especially easy for me to tailor my schedule to suit you."

It successfully throws her off course. He can hear the swish of a strand of hair being nervously tucked behind her hear.

"Why?"

"For starters? To find out why you are hell bent on embarrassing me when I've taken a solemn vow to serve you."

"Embarrassing you!?" she hisses into the phone. A door thuds in the background and her little human sounds suddenly reverberate in a cascade of echoes through the phone. Tile, he wagers. She's shut herself in a water closet for privacy. "You're the one foisting your unwanted and uninvited attentions on me. If you're embarrassed by your own stupid behavior, then too stinking bad. You had a sports car with a giant bow on its roof brought to me at my school, for chrissake! The faculty think I'm being wooed by a drug dealer!"

He is quiet for a long moment.

"Clearly that was not my intention," he says soberly.

"Well the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

Eric lets out a rumbling chuckle. "So it would seem."

"Oh, that's funny to you?"

"I like this," he admits, stretching out on his large mattress. His bleeds were growing worse by the minute and now trailed down his neck and pooled in the hollow at the base of his throat. But even these couldn't dampen his optimism. He had her talking. It was something. A thin something, but it was a start. "I apologize for interrupting your work. I'll let you get back to it. Would you be so good as to call me sometime soon? At your convenience, of course, though I am regrettably indisposed before 6pm central time. That's two hours ahead of Portland…"

"Look, Eric, I know you mean well, but this is just…weird."

"He thinks of you constantly," he interjects.

It is his only weapon, but he's deployed it perfectly.

Ros takes a staccatoed breath.

"If I text you an address where you can reach him, will you write?"

There is only static across the connection.

"Please," he presses.

"I don't really know what to say, but…sure. I'll try."

"Thank you," he breathes in relief, wiping his nose with a tissue.

"Just no more gifts, okay?"

"It is tribute."

"Whatever. No more, please."

"I'll consider your request."

She laughs at the blatant refusal and it sets a grin on his face. He recognizes a thick strain of stubbornness in her spirit, not unlike his own.

"Talk soon, Madame Doctor."

"Go to sleep, big bad vampire. It's past your bedtime."

The line falls dead and soon after Eric does too.

* * *

**A/N: **I was BLOWN away by the awesome response to what was really meant to be a 1-shot. Thank you, thank you! This just goes to show: review and you shall receive. I hope this second chapter does justice to the first; it wasn't easy trying to whip up a possible plot from nothing! Please let me know what you think. Just remember: reviewers get to play in Godric's pool and find out just how soft Eric's silk jammy pants are...

Speaking of which, I probably will have to up the rating of the story to **M **if this continues. Thoughts? Strong yes or no in either direction?

Special thanks to **Meridiean** and **Midnat**, who have cajoled and encouraged me in equal measure. You're the best!


	3. Chapter 3

**iChronos Wireless~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Bat. Level [UUU-]**

**MESSAGES**~~~~~~~~~**Roslyn E. Murray~~~~~~~~~CONTACT**

* * *

Monday 12:13pm CST

* * *

**This is the fastest way to reach him via post:**

**Godfrey & Son, Ltd.  
P.O. Box 743  
Dallas, TX 75220**

**Got it?**

[12:13pm]

**...Waiting…**

**Tap tap tap…**

**Ros, I need you to confirm.**

[12:13pm]

**Do you think I run around all hours of  
the day texting this highly guarded address  
to just anyone? REPLY MORTAL.**

[12:13pm]

**ROSALYN!**

[12:14pm]

_ Jesus jumpin jackrabbit, blondie. You type like 900wrds per second. _

[12:14pm]

**Delete the text when we're done.  
My people will wipe the cell tower records.  
Secure the physical paper in safe, pref. locked, locale.  
**

[12:14pm]

_It's a LETTER, not a __commission for a __hit. Chill out.  
Writing it down now. Gimme 1 minute pls. _

_^-mere mortal here._

[12:15pm]

**Ha. You're way more fun via txt. Has anyone every told you that?**

[12:15pm]

**Done yet?**

[12:16pm]

_Did you *actually* just count out exactly 1 minute?_

[12:21pm]

**I'm a Virgo. We're precise. **

**^-"mere" immortal Viking legend here (+ a few hundred other honorifics & titles)**

**You may already be familiar w/ a few of these after stalking my  
Wikipedia page, creeper... ;)  
**

[12:21pm]

_Right. A Virgo._

[12:22pm]

**I am! (I think.) **

[12:22pm]

_Sure._

[12:22pm]

**Maybe. **

[12:22pm]

_Uh huh._

[12:23pm]

**Well it would explain a lot.**

[12:23pm]

_I'll keep that in mind._

[12:23pm]

**That you didn't question the rest shows your intelligence;  
my prestige and renown are objectively, scientifically true.**

[12:24pm]

_Oh yes. Proven because they are listed on a free webpage open  
to public, anonymous editing by tweens and trolls... _

[12:24pm]

**That is exceedingly unfair to trolls. They are a kind, easygoing people.**

[12:24pm]

**TICK TOCK, Dr.**

**Honestly, what ARE you doing right now that's taking so long?**

[12:25pm]

_Txting with you, duh! Also dodging students...  
_

[12:25pm]

**If I told you that I am slowly bleeding to death in my own bed,  
would you possibly move any faster?**

[12:25pm]

_Touché. _

[12:25pm]

**Please confirm that you will delete this text/**  
**secure paper as directed above.**

[12:26pm]

_K._

[12:28pm]

**That is NOT how we confirm *critical*instructions. **  
**Let me be absolutely clear: you ARE being tested. Failure to comply  
in our security protocols will result in fine/punishment to the  
fullest extent permissible by law.  
**

[12:28pm]

_ROGER THAT, Sheriff. Delete msg, store paper securely. Thy will be done  
as in heaven and so on earth, etc. etc. etc. Happy?_

[12:29pm]

**THANK. YOU.**

**And yes - you should. :)**

[12:30pm]

_?_

[12:31pm]

**"Roger" that. He needs it.**

[12:31pm]

_Ugh._ _Pervert._

[12:31pm]

**Most assuredly ;)**

[12:31pm]

_As if I needed convincing. BTW you have an exceptional talent for  
making a woman feel cheap. I mean it. **OUTSTANDING** Just putting  
it out there, since you know, we're "friends" and all.  
_

[12:32pm]

**Wasn't aware it was among my strong suits. Shall we add it to my  
official register of titles?**

[12:32pm]

_High lord of Jackassery?_

_Thane of Misogyny?_

_Prince of Patriarchal Darkness?_

[12:33pm]

**:'( **

**Except...No, wait. I actually kind of like the last one. **

**:D**

[12:33pm]

_Srsly with the emoticons!? What are you, a 12 yr old girl?_

[12:33pm]

**Let me check.**

[12:34pm]

_Lol. Taking a while, I see…Thought you were 'dying' to get off the line w me.  
_

[12:37pm]

_Helloooo? Fall asleep on me buddy? Or did the ego take a hit? (Methinks the  
latter is more plausible…)_

[12:38pm]

_ Oh Mr. Norrrrrrthman..._

[12:41pm]

**Sorry. Litetight shutters xtra slow today. Company sucks. **

**Dump their stocks asap, btw, we're going to back Nitegaard's  
new product in the fall. They've partnered with Persol.  
Genius work, obsly...G & I funded the R&D. **

[12:42pm]

_Eric...SIGH. _

_The stock market and its assoc. systems of capital perpetuate the mystification  
of real human values which alienates us from our humanity. I choose to invest my  
life and my craftwork in ethical and sustainable practices, not the predatory  
behavior of capitalists. _

[12:42pm]

**Thx for the refresher course in Marx. Noble ideas from a good man. I just hope it doesn't disappoint you  
to learn that I am *literally* why good 'ole Karl likened capitalism to vampirism.  
And before you judge - I was giving him free room and board in London so he could write.  
**

[12:42pm]

_FACEPALM. If that is even true, you are officially a life ruiner.  
_

_But, uh...why are you leaving your cubby or whatever?  
_

[12:42pm]

**Limited lighting in the bedrm. Still can't see if I'm a 12yo girl. 1sec.**

[12:42pm]

_HA. HA. GROW UP. _

[12:42pm]

**Growing as we speak, Madame Doctor.**

[12:42pm]

_OMFG. Don't you even DARE._

[12:43pm]

**Dare what? I like dares… XD  
**

[12:43pm]

_! $%&*! I swear to whatever Norse god you fear most that I'll block your number  
and ditch my phone if you send me an explicit photo. End of discussion. NOT acceptable. _

_Capiche?_

[12:43pm]

**Rogering that.  
**

[12:43pm]

_GO TO SLEEP NORTHMAN.  
_

[12:44pm]

**:P Your wish is my command, milady.  
**

**Before I sign out, you should b aware that this hour long convo just cost me  
a lot of blood. You owe me half ****a sixpack of Royalty Blended. **

**O neg, please.**

[12:45pm]

_I'll consider your request, Sheriff._

[12:45pm]

**Well played. But I thought I was Prince?**

[12:45pm]

_Your new title remains to be seen._

[12:45pm]

**I can work with that. ****Good day, Roslyn fair. Talk soon.**

[12:46pm]

_Sleep tight, big baddie. Don't let the bedbugs bite. _

[12:46pm]

**I'm the only thing that bites around here. Night, Doc. **

**}:F**

[12:46pm]

* * *

**A/N:** Soooo...My readers are AMAZING, FANTASTIC, WONDERFUL people! I was awash in lovely reviews yesterday and it got me so excited I just *had* to send you a little something to share my thanks and appreciation while I work on a full blown chapter. This is obviously quite experimental. What do you think? Leave a little review...the box is right down there - - - V.

Godric's address here is a fake (we can't give that info out here, sorry), but if you'd like to send him a letter via the review button, it will be forwarded and he'll try to respond.

Reviewers also get unexpected texts in the middle of the day from an unknown but suspiciously flirty Viking. He likes emoticons. He doesn't care how that makes him look. He looks _good._

_Special thanks to **Royal Ember** and **Midnat**, who helped me straighten out how to do the timestamps and come up with the wireless carrier most preferred by the undead. iChronos Wireless is a subsidiary of Mobius Media, Inc. All rights reserved. I'll let you guess who owns a controlling share of it. ;F_


	4. Chapter 4

"Do I even want to know?" Pam asks, her tone oozing sarcasm. She roughly drops a box on Eric's desk.

"Aww…you opened it?" he says, seeing the return address on the flap.

"Protocol, Eric. You'd cut up my credit cards if I let a bomb get through the mailroom!"

"Too true. Let's see what we have here." He rubs his hands together and rummages through the Styrofoam packing peanuts, unconcerned by the pink puffs he sends showering across the floor.

"Mother of god, I'd rather we got the bomb," Pam exclaims when he surfaces with a handful of bubble wrap and a glass bottle.

It is plastered in holographic children's stickers that wink and sparkle in the harsh overhead light.

"What _is_ that…"

Eric's eyes shine in amusement. He digs out two more, each sporting unique homemade labels.

"I believe, dearest Pamela, that it is blood fit for a 12 year old girl."

She narrows her eyes. "Your idea of foreplay is getting creepier by the decade."

He hums in thought. "Would you believe me if I said I'm not even trying to bed this one?"

"No, I wouldn't. Whatever sick game this is between you, your maker, and the bloodbag, leave me the hell out of it. It's getting weird."

"Too weird for you, Pam?" he wonders aloud, distracted with the contents of his package. The petite blond stomps around picking up the packing materials, knowing she'll be expected to incinerate the evidence immediately.

Eric dismisses her with an annoyed flick of his hand. Carefully, he wipes down each bottle with a bit of rubbing alcohol to rid them of any traces of human scent and sets them on the edge of his desk where they might be noticed. It's an utterly kooky thing to do, but Ros' unexpected gag gift could not be better timed. He was expecting Godric this evening. There wouldn't be a more natural chance to inquire about his maker's mail if he'd dreamed it up himself.

It is not long before Eric hears the distinctly squeaky thwacking of someone coming down the staff-only hall in rubber flip flops. It is accompanied by the tittering click of Pam's absurdly expensive heels. He surfaces from the paperwork he's been plowing through to see her usher in the family patriarch.

"Grandsire has arrived, Master."

"So he has," he says, looking him up and down. Godric saunters in with his hands jammed deep in the pockets of a pair of slouchy grey sweatpants. He is sporting a backwards baseball cap on and a hoodie. As Pam closes the door, she gestures at his outfit and throws her hands up in total frustration.

Godric takes his hat off and sets it on his progeny's desk, then runs a hand through his lustrous brown locks.

"Please tell me you rushed a fraternity," Eric quips, tossing the thick stack of files aside.

"No," he murmurs, not seeing the humor in the joke. Instead he scrubs meanly at his face with the cuffs of his sweater, rubbing off the powdery blush he'd used to make his pale cheeks appear more human. His garments reek of hot grease and cheap beer.

"So?" Eric presses.

"She's Fae, Eric. Not much, but I've no doubt it is why Compton is here."

Eric swears. He suspected as much when the strange woman and the vampire spy came into his club three days ago. With little experience in the elusive creatures, his maker agreed to drop in and do a quick bit of undercover work for him at her place of employment.

"I am warning you right now, you stay clear of that woman. Fairies are your worst nightmare."

"Mmm. But tasty, no?" He'd never actually eaten one, given their rarity, but they were rumored to be deliriously intoxicating.

"And as vicious as they are temperamental and fickle." His eyes drift momentarily to the edge of the desk, then back to his progeny. "I am not joking. Do not make me command you."

"Aww, I love it when you boss me around. I get all nostalgic."

He ignores the blond's snark. "I find it hard to believe there just 'happens' to be a lost fae child wandering around in…what is that backwater called?"

"Bon Temps."

Godric wrinkles his nose. "…In Bon Temps. Someone has left her there to hide her, for reasons we have yet to understand."

"But she's still an asset in _my _area. What if Compton means to remove her? How can you expect me not to intervene? The queen could be trying to entrap me – make me look incompetent."

"You let Compton fool with her until we know more. Mark my words, son: it will be only a matter of time before he destroys himself over her. Accursed creatures, the Fae," he grumbles, clearly disturbed.

"'Think, observe, and play the long game'?" he confirms. It is the motto his maker has always used to warn him against hasty decisions. Godric bites the inside of his cheek and nods.

"What did you think of the shifter's bar?" Eric asks with a smirk.

"Merlotte's? It is truly vile. You can hear the humans' organs clogging as they happily stuff their faces with garbage."

"Sorry. You want a change of clothes?"

"Please."

Eric digs out a shirt with the Fangtasia logo and a clean pair of his own oversized running shorts from a cupboard. When he turns to hand them over, he catches the Celt glancing back at his desk.

"Oh, you noticed my gift?"

"What…what are these?" He leans forward and gingerly picks up a bottle, inspecting it. "'Friendship is Magic?'" he reads the label in confusion. "Why are there cartoon horses on this blood?" My Little Ponies prance and shake their glittery manes, sending rainbow colors skipping about.

"What? You don't ever get any fan mail since the Reveal?" he asks coyly.

"No. Well, not like this."

Eric grunts a noncommittal sound. It's his age old signal for his maker to continue. Getting him to talk could be like pulling teeth.

"Just a few postcards lately," Godric mutters, still regarding the bottle with fascination.

"Postcards?" Eric presses, crossing his fingers. "From where?"

"Random places. Tacoma. Newark. Arlington."

_Airports_, Eric registers immediately. "And what do they say? Are they undying declarations of fealty to you? Propositions for long nights full of passionate, reckless sex?"

Godric suppresses a weak smile. "No. Just quotes."

"Romantic quotes? Loooooove quotes?"

"Oh would you back off!?" he snaps, clinking the bottle down. "They are literary quotations, if you must know."

"Tell me one," he demands, crossing his arms.

The youthful vampire looks sheepish for a brief moment before slowly pulling out his wallet. He digs out a battered looking piece of cardstock that has been folded and refolded many times. Eric opens it carefully to reveal a famous oil painting of Yosemite Valley. It is a lush landscape filled with light and water and life. He flips it over. The message is written in block letters, but he is fairly certain of the hand.

_Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.  
I am haunted by waters. – N. Maclean_

He furrows his brow. "It's sad," he declares, astonished.

"I like it."

"It sounds fucking sad!"

"No, son. It's beautiful. Does it not describe us perfectly?"

Eric shakes his head and hands the postcard back. He is bewildered by the Celt who turned him so long ago. "Whatever. I like my…" he picks up another bottle "…'Hello Kitty Juice' better."

Godric takes it and sniffs the cap in suspicion. It appears to be factory sealed.

"You don't know who sent this?" He rolls the bottle in his hand, testing its weight and the viscosity of the liquid inside.

Moments ago Eric was about to throttle Ros for sending his maker melancholy cards when she'd promised to help, but he suddenly sees she's given him another perfect opportunity for a little sleight of hand.

"I suppose it is a secret admirer. Box didn't have a return address." Eric snatches up the third drink. "I'll have this one. What do you think? It's probably safe." He spins it around. "'The Power of Mjölnir!' Sounds about my speed, no?"

A blond hulking superhero on the sticker is thrusting a hammer into the sky. There are also, inexplicably, little hearts and balloons pasted on it.

Eric casually pops the container into the microwave on his bookshelf.

"Don't drink that. It could be poisoned."

"With what? Ooh, maybe it's tainted with fairy!" he waggles his eyebrows.

"I don't like it, Eric," he threatens in a growl. The microwave dings and Godric grabs the bottle away from his progeny before he can taste it. He snaps the cap off and takes a fast drag. "Mmkkkch!" he gags, quickly throwing a palm over his mouth to keep from spraying it everywhere. "It tastes like burnt dog!" he cries.

"Oh fuck, that's probably B Pos. Hold on, maybe one of these is O." Eric quickly zaps the 'Pony' blood, this time leaving off a few seconds on the timer since his maker found it overheated. "Check this one."

Godric takes a very tiny sip, lips curling back in anticipation of something foul. He swallows hesitantly, then runs a tongue over his teeth. A shadow of something illegible passes over his features. It isn't quite a cringe.

"What's wrong? Is it contaminated?" Eric goes for the bottle, but Godric jerks it away possessively, taking another tentative drink. The viking manages to keep his face schooled with a look of grave concern. All he wants to do is thrust his fist in the air in victory.

"It tastes…funny." He purses his lips, searching for the right description. "Remember when we made that run on the Papal whorehouse?"

"Mmm, of course. In the 16th century?"

"It's kind of like that. Like…used up Medici courtesans and sullied altar boys drowned with an imitation Chianti. It's disgusting." He drinks again, thinking.

"Hm. No, our courtesans drank themselves sick with that pricey Brunello stuff. Or was it Vin Santo?"

"Vin Santo," Godric says wistfully. "But they cut it with water. Don't you recall? We had to bring it to them in cases. They hardly had 10 florins between the lot of them after we robbed the church." He passes the bottle and Eric feigns taking a swig.

"Oh right. But that Floriana - or no, Francesca was her name - her voice was divine. I can still see her sitting on that windowsill overlooking the canal. She was like a songbird, so full of music."

"I rather remember you liked her more for her erotic artistry."

"Either way, her throat was great."

Godric rolls his eyes.

"Which was the one with the wicked wit and the even keener pen? She kept writing all those scathing pamphlets? You had to glamour her out of jail twice…"

"Oh my god, yes. Arabella! I had forgotten her. Scandalous political views!" Eric passes the bottle back to his maker who, lost in recollection, takes it and drinks. He presses for more details and the two reminisce for the better part of an hour, sipping (or fake sipping as it were) and laughing in turns.

It has been three months since the AVL's gala. Three months. Eric tries to sweep the number from his mind. It is too distressing.

If Godric knows he's been surreptitiously misled into eating, he makes no comment. He merely wipes the back of his mouth with a small hand and leaves the bottle, shaking his head. "That has plastic in it. It's killing the humans, you know."

He leaves without further ado, sandals flapping noisily down the tiled floors of the club.

Eric briefly wonders whether being around the fae hybrid whetted his appetite, but he quickly dismisses the idea. The Stackhouse woman's blood had held no unique allure for him when they had met. It was her slithering snake of a choice in dates along with the admission about the telepathy that tipped him off about anything unusual. No, he decides, looking at the nearly empty bottle left sitting on his desk. The inexplicable variable here was Rosalyn Murray. Who would ever think to send such a fantastically odd thing to a vampire? He is equal parts baffled and intrigued.

Too pleased to resist, Eric collapses onto his leather couch with his phone.

-OOO-

In the dead of night, the city beyond the ice-cold glass of Ros' hotel room is silent and twinkling. She has been staring out the window for hours, unable to sleep. Every time she's had to return to D.C. in the past few months, her insomnia has grown worse. The city is overrun with fake smiles and helmet hair and young people who have been conned into thinking that all dreams should fit neatly inside ballot boxes. She's been awash in double-tongued ideas like 're-districting' and 'bottom lines' and 'poll numbers' and it makes her head throb. She can't believe how difficult it is to simply right one single law that is so clearly prejudiced and motivated by human fear and hate. It is eating at her and she is tired and despite all the assurances of her supporters, she is pretty sure she is alone in this battle.

Somewhere over the hum of the room's A/C unit, deep in the recesses of her purse, she hears her phone buzz. The sound rouses her out of her troubled thoughts. There's only one person she knows that texts her so late. She goes to hunt the device down, leaving a misty outline of a handprint on the windowpane. It lingers a moment, then disappears.

* * *

**Horizon Wireless~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Bat. Level [U_]**

**MESSAGES**~~~~~~~~~**BigBadBlondie~~~~~~~~~CONTACT**

* * *

Thursday 3:49am EST

* * *

_You brilliant, utterly bizarre hippy. _

_I adore you and want to crawl inside your brain and play._

[3:49am]

**What did I do now?**

[3:49am]

_Sending pic. Totally clean, scouts honor._

[3:50am]

* * *

Without her reading glasses, Ros squints at the thumbnail picture before downloading it. It looks like something on a desk. Declaring it safe, she opens it. It is a shot of one of the silly blood synthetics she mailed Eric two weeks ago. He must have just received them. The image is followed up with another text.

* * *

_Entertained company 2nite. The old man drank it, not me. _

_Was entranced by sparkly ponies… _

[3:50am]

**Lol. Great news. Very happy to hear. **

[3:50am]

_Also, Thor was a B+. NASTY. _

_(and blasphemous)._

_Thought I made myself clear. _

_By my count, u still owe me 2 drinks._

[3:51am]

**Hmm. Limited stock available. **

**Smurf Blood only. Leaves your teeth blue.**

[3:51am]

_Genius. You should be in marketing. _

[3:51am]

**If only. **

[3:51am]

_What's up? _

[3:51am]

**Ugh. Politics. **

[3:52am]

_News getting you down or problem at work?_

[3:52am]

**Meh. Having trouble with the AVL's lobbyist. **

**He's kind of dick. You're in politics, **

**can I pick your brain about him?**

[3:52am]

I AM CALLING.

[3:52am]

* * *

"Where are you?" Eric demands. He is furious and his tone brooks no argument.

"I'm in Washington. What's wrong?"

"What in the name of the nine fucking realms are you doing with the AVL's lobbyist on Capitol Hill?"

"I…I'm trying to get this petition rolling for education reform. It's really been slow going…"

"I thought you were doing consulting work – getting your night class program started at more colleges! Is this not why you have been traveling!?"

"Wait, what? I've been doing that too, but…How did you know I've been on the road?"

"IT'S MY JOB TO KNOW!" he bellows in panic. "Now explain yourself!"

"The hell I will! Explain yourself, mister! Have you…" Her voice drops into a hiss. "Oh my god, have you been _spying _on me?!"

"Goddammit woman," he growls back. His mind quickly calls up the post stamp from the card Godric had showed him. "Arlington, Virginia. You were in DC two months ago?"

"Yes, but…"

"And Newark. Please for the love of the gods tell me you weren't in New York."

"Yes, as a matter of fact I was. I don't see what the…"

"At the AVL headquarters?" he screeches.

"Of course, I had to meet with Nan Flannigan in order to…"

Eric swears a stream of obscenities and there's loud banging and slamming in the background.

"Just what is going on, Eric? You're freaking out!"

"What's going on is I have exactly two hours, twenty-eight minutes, and nineteen seconds to get to D.C. before sunrise."

"WHAT!?"

The line goes dead before Ros can get an answer.

* * *

**A/N:** Eep! Mean cliffy, sorry! I've tried to respond to each and every one of you who sent a review with my appreciation. For those who sent guest reviews or don't accept PMs: thank you! You all rock so much!

So, what do you think is going to happen? Reviewers get to help frat boy Godric change into a more suitable outfit. ;F

**IMPORTANT**: I'm going to up the rating to M on this story in a chapter or two. There's just no way it can continue at T, so please note the change as it might affect how you search/locate the story if you don't have it in your follow list.


	5. Chapter 5

The television screen pulses with images in the darkness of the hotel room. An old movie is playing, but Ros has it muted. She's too distressed to try to follow the story and the chattering Hollywood starlettes will only aggravate the massive headache currently splitting through her skull.

Her phone buzzes with a text message precisely ninety minutes after her jarring phone call from Eric. It reads simply: _What hotel? Room #?_

_Sofitel. Lafayette Sq., Rm 243, _she types back.

In exactly three minutes, there is a soft scratch on the door. She checks the peephole. There is black clad chest outside. Golden hair just barely sweeps across the pale arching mounds of the person's extraordinarily broad shoulders, but any other details are obscured by the visitor's massive height. The chest dips down and she's suddenly greeted with icy blue eyes. Ros squeaks in surprise and he grins wolfishly.

"Blondie?" she greets in disbelief when she opens the door. Eric stands unmoving in the hallway.

"Do you need to be invited in? Because I'm not exactly thrilled to see you here at the crack of dawn."

He types something rapidly into his phone then flips it around for her to read.

_Turn off A/C and tv. _

She scrunches up her face and is about to retort, but he silences her with a sharp wave of his finger. This night is getting exponentially strange. Sighing, she does as he asks. In the door frame, Eric closes his eyes in concentration and tilts his head back. Coming to a quick conclusion, he steps through the doorway and taps his ear frantically.

"Good to see you, pet. Master Godric sends his regards. He is _most _displeased to hear you're having difficulty with the AVL."

"Oh, yeah, well…" Eric looks at her in warning.

"We can't accept that now, can we?"

"No, I guess not."

"No, pet, we cannot. You serve him, at his pleasure. Isn't that right?"

His eyes go wide as he mouths 'yes,' leading her through the answers he wants.

"Yeah. You know it," she says, shrugging in frustrated incomprehension. Eric blinks slowly, nodding.

"This room is a shoddy piece of shit," he declares, fingering the polyester coverlet on the bed with disgust. "Did the AVL comp you this? Daddy-o is going to be one unhappy camper when he finds out. C'mon, we're upgrading."

"Erp…" He claps a hand over her mouth before she can blast him with an unscripted complaint.

Ros crosses her arms, now thoroughly put out, and Eric begins zipping through the room collecting her things. In mere seconds, he hands her the packed bag.

Eric stalks down the hall toward the elevator, Ros in tow. She's barefoot and clad only her lime green nightgown. She scuttles awkwardly with her heavy suitcase.

"Eric! Where are we going?" she demands. The car dings and he scowls when the doors part to reveal a trio of scantily dressed young women inside. They looked drugged and are obviously here working the hotel's clientele.

"Out!" he growls, sending them skittering.

He has Ros by the arm and he slams the lobby floor button far too roughly.

"Man, _what _is your problem? How did you get here so fast?"

"I flew," he says, keeping a steady eye on the floor numbers whizzing by.

"I didn't even know there were flights between Shreveport and here. What did you take, a fighter jet?"

Eric glances at her, his expression sour. "Do me a favor and shut up." He throws a mild compulsion into it and Ros blinks in confusion. It's a hasty glamour, without any finesse, but the eyes monitoring the camera in the corner of the elevator car would catch anything more purposeful. Ros wants to speak, but her brain feels garbled about what she means to say. Her mouth opens and closes several times, but she's been silenced as callously and impatiently as her old movies stars on tv. Her headache grows worse.

At the front desk, she can only watch as Eric intimidates a pin-neat concierge into giving him a light-tight suite. He insists that it be charged to the AVL's account and it takes several frantic calls to an equally flustered manager before the unreasonable demand is met with profuse apologies and two key cards. As Ros waits, mutely clutching her bag to her chest, she can't help but notice the eyes that surreptitiously slide in her direction. From the bar. At the courtesy phone. In coat check. It is same way other vampires have looked at her and it is deeply unsettling. Their heads never move.

When Eric escorts her into a sumptuous room on the eighth floor, the entire experience has felt disembodied, surreal. She sets the suitcase down in the middle of the floor and stands there, forlorn. Eric first programs the highly complex biometric lock that seals the door and then scours the room's surfaces, looking for listening devices. Finally, he lightly touches her shoulder.

"You can speak now, the room is clean."

The situation suddenly comes back into jarring focus. Adrenaline floods her system.

"Eric!" she gasps, feeling like her mind has been released only to find herself trapped.

"Shhh…it's okay, it's okay. It was necessary. Are you alright?"

She slaps him. Hard. Normally, Ros loathes violence, but this is pure animal instinct.

"Don't you _ever _do that to me again, do you understand?" The blow has zero affect on him, but it leaves her hand stinging. He automatically takes it between his two cool palms.

"Listen to me. I am here to protect you. You are safe now." He guides the trembling woman to sit at the edge of the bed and squats at her feet, trying to minimize how intimidating he must seem.

"Everything is going to be okay."

"Okay? You roll in here with no explanation, acting like some crazed James Bond villain, then you use your terrifying mind control powers on me and drag me into this freaking inescapable dungeon of a room? Just what part of that sounds 'okay' to you? Cause it sounds to me like I need protection from _you_."

He runs and hand through his hair.

"I was in a rush. Please, let me explain." Eric pulls a chair up and sits in it backwards.

"Oh please. Be my guest. What choice have I got," she rasps, pointing to the impenetrable door.

"Ros, this is a misunderstanding."

"Really? What part of your high-handed bullshit am I not getting?"

"Calm down, woman! I am trying to tell you that I made an error. Do I look pleased about it? I've got a lot on my plate at the moment. I had _no _idea that you were messing around with the AVL folks. Why didn't you mention it?"

"Mention it? Do you tell me how you spend _your _nights? We've texted each other a couple times, you twit! I barely know you! "

"Fair enough. Look, the AVL…they are a complete front. Part of the PR strategy for the Reveal."

"What?"

"They're a sham. In no way connected to the actual operation of vampire politics in the U.S."

"That's outrageous. They're supposed to be incorporating Vampire Americans into our legal system!"

"No, what is outrageous is that you have been consorting with the AVL's lobbyist. Derek Ronwe is a dick, as you say, because he's a full-blooded daemon and a damned dangerous one at that. Please tell me you haven't signed anything he's given you or made any agreements with him."

"No, no, nothing like that. He tried to get me to have dinner him a couple times, but I refused."

"Thank god."

"Wait. You're not being serious…"

"Deadly," he says, the tips of his fangs peeking out.

"An actual demon," she exclaims, mouth agape.

"Yes."

"Okay I'm…" She shakes her head, trying to dispel the shock. "That doesn't even begin to cover why you're here."

He purses his lips, trying to figure out where to begin. There is so much she doesn't know and plenty she is far safer not knowing. "Tell me first about what you are trying to accomplish in the human legislature, then maybe I can explain better."

"Nothing, it would seem, since it turns out the AVL isn't actually meant to do anything." She rubs her temples, trying to will away the pinching pain in her head. "I just want young and disadvantaged vampires to have the same opportunities as everybody else – to qualify for scholarships and go to school."

Eric is confused. "But why?"

"What do you mean why? You don't think vampires have rights too?"

"Of course, but I mean, this is something I've never understood about you. I looked through every record I could find. You have had virtually no experience with our kind, which - no offense – it's plainly obvious from how you act. Why help?"

Ros furrows her brow. "Because it is the right thing to do."

"No one is that much of a saint. What's in it for you? Are you going to patent your program?"

"Of course not!" she recoils in disgust. "Everybody wins when curious minds are allowed to blossom."

He looks at her skeptically. He's lived too long to buy it.

"Look, two years ago a young woman wanted to take my class. I pushed the course time past sunset to accommodate her, only to find out the school wouldn't let her register. You know what the dean told me? 'We don't give credits to fangs.'"

Eric's eyes narrow. "What was her name?" he asks, his voice frighteningly quiet.

"The dean? Eric, I don't want you taking things into your own hands…"

"No, the vampire."

"Lucy."

"Did she ever get to enroll?"

"I don't know. I never saw her again. I quit. Nobody tells me how to run my classroom."

He nods, dropping his gaze to the ground. A blond tendril of hair falls forward. For the first time, she sees something in his features that isn't total cocky bastard. He seems subdued – and determined. "We'll make sure Lucy gets to take that class, Rosalyn. I wish you had told me this sooner."

"What am I supposed to do now?"

"First thing is first. You stay the hell away from Ronwe. Clear your schedule and don't return anyone's phone calls. I'll arrange to get you back to Portland tomorrow evening. The most important thing is that we keep the AVL guessing about our intentions, since they'll have assumed that we sent you to spy on them."

"What? Why on earth would they think that?"

He groans, wishing his maker could have at least just this once had the courtesy to explain himself. "Let me break it down for you. Godric healed you that night at the gala. He marked you with his blood, sealing it between the layers of your skin. It's a…claim, of sorts. Or the beginning of one, at least. You've been parading around smelling like extraordinarily ancient vampire. It's barely noticeable now, but I bet if you were stomping around New York and DC in the late summer heat every creature within 10 miles picked up on you."

Ros' fingertips graze her neck and she furrows her brow. All those creepy, sliding eyes of other vampires – they were undressing her, sniffing out her most intimate secrets. She feels violated, somehow, and it isn't the feeling she wants curling in her throat when she thinks of that magical night…of Godric's sensual touch, his heated stare and those cool lips…

"I feel sick," she whispers, closing her eyes. A fat tear threatens to escape. "How could he…"

"Don't. He meant absolutely no offense. On the contrary…" Eric seems to struggle for the right words, as if it were impossible to capture the full meaning of his maker's blessing. "It is a _supreme_ mark of honor. "

"He…he was so strange after he - you know. About the bite."

He nods, unable to discuss that night in the desert. If and when Godric wants to share, he would. "I am sorry if I frightened you tonight."

"Sorry I smacked you. You deserved it, though."

"I had to act quickly. You being marked – it attaches you to our family. Your hotel room was stuffed with surveillance equipment. The AVL is undoubtedly watching you like a hawk."

"So you think that gives _you_ the right to spy on me? To barge in and order me around? Use mind control? I am a person, damn you, not a puppet!"

"You are far more than a person. You are unique; you alone are the only mortal to bear Godric's mark. What did I say the night we met?"

Ros still has her palm placed protectively over her neck. She traces the jacquard patterns in the puffy grey comforter with her other hand, unwilling to meet his intense stare. "I don't know. You said you liked me for a breather or something."

"Tsk. My exact words were 'you are literally my favorite breather in the entire world.' Do I strike you as one prone to compliments?"

She shrugs sheepishly. "I meant what I said, Rosalyn."

He goes to the fancy wet bar built into the side wall and starts rifling through the large gift baskets set on the counter. "Here. Will this help?" He hands her a foil wrapped bar and she narrows her eyes.

"You can't buy your way out of this with chocolate, Eric Northman."

He smiles innocently. "I can try."

She snags it from his hands. "Keep talking, mister."

Eric tries his best to elaborate. He is rarely ever so candid, especially with a human. He paces the room, which seems to keep his thoughts organized. Every lap he makes across the floor maps out yet another way the AVL might have attempted to exploit her. It is dizzying. And humbling.

"Our family – we don't openly support or oppose any of the many factions in our world. We certainly haven't taken a clear stance on the AVL or even the consortium of big time players that backs them."

"Who do you side with then?"

Eric breaks into a sly grin. "Ourselves, of course. How do you think we have survived for so long? At least now we've given the AVL confirmation that you play ball for our team. They will think twice about trying to use you for their own purposes."

"I really walked into a supernatural shitstorm, didn't I?"

Eric sighs, relieved she's finally accepted that this isn't some evil machination of his own. "Afraid so. But luckily, I'm good at cleaning up messes."

"I guess I should be grateful you got here when you did."

Eric kicks off his heavy leather boots, leaving them strewn on the floor and they lapse into silence for a long moment. Both are pleased that they seem to have arrived at a better understanding of each other.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Why do you live in Shreveport? I don't mean to be rude, but it's not exactly a buzzing hub of culture and refinement."

"Would you believe me if I said I like the muggy weather and the alligators?"

"Nope." Ros sucks the last errant smear of chocolate off her thumb and crumples the wrapper. She doesn't notice the way his nostrils flare slightly at her gesture.

"Hnnn, clever woman. Think of it this way. You used to fish with your father as a little girl, right?"

"How can you even…"

"Facebook," he interjects.

"I'm going to need more chocolate," she huffs, pegging him in the chest with the balled up foil.

He laughs and grabs the 'human' guest basket, dumping it on the bed. He flops down next to her to examine the contents.

"Where do the biggest, oldest fish live in the river?" He drags a long finger through the jumble of candies spread out between them and taps next to a red and white peppermint. "Behind the rocks and in the bends, where the water is the calmest. All the young ones struggle in the current, flapping around furiously where the predators can see them. Meanwhile, we lay quietly waiting."

"What are you waiting for?"

"For the most interesting snacks to come floating our way, of course!" He taps her nose and gives a carefree laugh.

"Jerk!" she retorts and he laughs even harder. Without warning, he rolls over and pulls his black tank top over his head with a single hand, exposing an impossibly gorgeous expanse of pale skin. His chest is a sculpture to rival anything wrought in marble.

"Uh..." she stammers, suddenly very focused on peeling off the cellophane wrapper of a caramel. "I guess I'll take the couch then."

"Don't be silly, Ros," he hums huskily. He hops on all fours, looking ready to pounce. "You're going to sleep right here." He pats the mattress under him. "On top of me," he clarifies.

The delighted twinkle in his eyes turns her beet red. She's about to tell him he can sleep on the business end of a stake when he kicks under the bedskirt and a hard-sided travel coffin rolls out. "See?"

"UGH! You cad!" she yells, thoroughly annoyed.

"You know it," he winks and steals a pillow off the bed. Once inside the trundle, he squirms around to make himself comfortable. There's very little room for his massive frame.

"I took the liberty of ordering your meals for the day. They'll leave them in the carousel." He points to a little door in the wall. The array of unfamiliar technology in the room makes it feel as though Ros has stepped into an alternate universe. In some ways, she truly has.

"I'm assuming you've not seen one of these up-close before?" He slaps the edges of his titanium sleeping case and she shakes her head. "It will tuck back under the bed when I shut the cover. Please don't mess with it during the day; it has a really nasty security system to deter tampering and you don't want to see how grumpy I get when I'm awoken unexpectedly."

"Got it. Am I really going to be locked in here all day?"

"And here I thought you were an optimist," he quips. "Think of it as keeping the bad guys locked _out_."

"You're the only baddie I see around here."

Eric simply laughs and digs his phone out to send some last minute instructions to Pam. Ros crawls underneath the sheets and can't help but let out a hum of appreciation. They are deliciously soft. Eric wasn't wrong. This room is way nicer. She turns out the lamp.

"Eric?" she asks through a wide yawn, finally feeling sleepy. He is still tapping away on his phone, creating a soft glow from the floor by the bed.

"Hmm?"

"I'm starting to figure you out." Under all the arrogance and the flippancy and the sexual innuendo, he is profoundly good. And he is offering her his friendship.

"Should I be worried?"

"Nah, your secret is safe with me."

"Phew."

"You're still an overbearing brute, though."

He snorts. "I know."

A few moments later, he sets his cell down.

"Ros?"

"Yeah."

"I saw your Yosemite postcard."

He hears her heart skip a beat and she swallows hard.

"He keeps it in his wallet."

Another long silence passes.

"Why does he like it? The quote, I mean…" His voice is barely audible.

Ros rolls over, burrowing deeper into the covers as if she can hide herself from the vampire's intrusive questions.

"It's about our unity in nature and time."

"It's more than that," he counters. Contrary to all appearances, he's not insensitive to such things. He likes literature. He learned to read and write studying Aeschylus and Ovid, for crying out loud. What he does not like is the looming dread that his maker is slowly slipping away from him. And this woman somehow speaks a language only she and Godric seem to share. He desperately needs to understand.

"It means…I am haunted by that night in the desert," she admits in a whisper.

He lets that thought settle over him. The compressor in the room's mini-fridge kicks on, filling the silence with a calming buzz.

"Ros?"

"What, blondie."

"Tell me another of your quotes."

She sighs. "Just one, okay?"

"Alright."

She takes an unsteady breathe in the pitch black room.

"'If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers.'"

Eric smiles to himself. "Saint-Exupéry," he supplies. "What was the picture?"

"One of those time-lapse shots of the night sky in the Pacific Northwest."

His smile grows even broader.

"I see him in everything now," she explains quietly.

Normally the Viking would respond to such sentiment with a crass joke, but in the last minutes before dawn, he finds there is nothing at all funny about it. Instead, he is reminded of the first time he ever set eyes on his maker. He was a savage, shining boy - a face peering over his funeral bier illuminating the dark. He has guided him through a thousand years of night.

Eric cannot fathom a world without Godric's light.

* * *

A/N: Whoa. Okay, that ended super-heavy. Breathe. Breathe again. Alright now?

HOW are these two going to conspire to bring Ros back together with Godric?! Guesses? I promise we'll get some more Godric very soon. A LOT of Godric, if you know what I mean. **WINK** Please review! Reviewers get locked in a four star hotel with Eric. :F


	6. Chapter 6

Being locked in a sealed room with Eric Northman, it turns out, is not such a terrible thing.

Unethical? To be sure. Respecting the normal boundaries of a barely begun friendship? Dubious, at best. But when Rosalyn wakes very late the next day, there isn't much time to grow too angry or resentful. She's only just attacking the massive dinner service left in the dumbwaiter cubby when Eric's trundle coffin rolls out. It unlatches and a ruffle-headed vampire sits up and stretches his long arms.

"Morning sweetpea," he coos.

"Hey. You're up early," she observes.

He notes that she has neither showered nor changed out of her nightgown. "You're not."

Ros shrugs and finishes a bite of the most tender, flavorful lamb she's ever tasted.

"You know, you're really an idiot. You must have ordered everything the kitchen had. There's enough food to feed a small army here."

"Well aren't you sassy today," he quips, smoothing his hair vainly in the mirror and apparently in no rush to cover his bare chest.

"Honestly. See this," she angles the plate at him. The mint sauce sluices down to the rim, threatening to spill. "That was a little baby sheep. And this? A steer, probably 3 or 4 years old. This was a duck once and that…well, I'm not entirely sure what that was, but it's definitely dead now too."

"Does this culinary lesson have a point, mistress?"

"It's wasteful! These animals each gave their lives to sate human hunger and they're just going to wind up in the trash."

"So?"

"So!?"

"Ros, you needed human food. I'm over a thousand years old and very much undead. To say I'm out of touch with what might serve as acceptable comestibles for you is an understatement. It was the simplest solution."

"It's not harmonious! It's taking more than we're giving back!"

"Then give it to some vagrants."

She furrows her brow in surprise. "Homeless people?"

"Yeah," he says, now fussing with the microwave and a bottle of Royalty Blended. "Just ask the driver to stop somewhere on your way to the airport later."

"That's…actually…a really good idea."

"I'm full of them," he smirks.

One minute he is shaking his drink across the room and then in a flash, he's right beside her, her wrist to his nose. She goes stiff as a board with a squeak. He draws in long breaths of her scent, not hiding the fact that his fangs are fully extended.

"Eric…do _not_…" she threatens in a flat tone, afraid that any more of a reaction will trigger the predator in him.

A rolling, low laugh rumbles out of him and he plants a chaste kiss on the back of her hand. "Just trying to drum up an appetite. This bottled stuff is pretty foul."

"It costs a fortune!"

"So did your baby sheep. Aren't you glad we're charging it to the AVL?"

"Just, don't do that, okay? You startled me."

"Believe me, I know. A little selfish though, I realize. Would you rather I gag this down in misery?" He makes a puppy dog face and damn him if he doesn't look adorable. "It's like a human trying to live only on Gatorade and energy gel."

"Says the man who just finished with his 'I know nothing of your puny mortal food' speech."

"I saw someone make the comparison in a magazine. Obviously I have no basis for the reference myself. Most of the crap you creatures eat looks like food dye and corn syrup goo to me."

Ros snorts. "Most of it is, honestly. I guess…here. They left this on the tray for you." She passes the donor menu to him.

"Rosalyn Murray, you naughty kitten. Am I to believe you want to watch me have a live meal?"

She chokes on her glass of water. "Just being polite. Nevermind."

"Scandalous," he tuts, raising and eyebrow and taking another drink.

"What's the last thing you ate as a human? Do you remember?" she wonders impulsively.

"Huh. What an odd thing to ask. I haven't thought of it…ever." He closes his eyes to trace back the millennium. It takes him a minute to find the memory. "It was war and I was travelling, so the last proper meal I had was with my people in the feasting hall. I believe…there was elk and mead and honeyed oatcakes, if I'm not mistaken."

"And what was the last human food to touch the legendary Northman's lips?"

"Dried fish. No…" he corrects. "Berries. I ate berries. Godric didn't want me to throw up the fish."

"I can't really imagine you eating. You're just so…vampire."

"Why thank you. That's easily the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

She picks at a piece of chocolate cake, but finds it a little on the dry side. "What's it like?" she asks quietly, perhaps too curious for her own good.

"Mmm…For us?"

"Yes." There were so many rumors, but a lot of it seemed like nonsense.

"Well, it's like a dance, I suppose. We mirror each other in every step."

This makes Ros grin almost painfully.

Eric sets the bottle on the table and stalks slowly toward her. "You see me and your pupils blow wide, to better understand what I am. Mine do the same, to better track your every move." He leans down so she can see his eyes. The icy irises are thin halos clasping pools of bottomless black. "Our vision is nearly perfect. I can see the dust shimmer on your skin. The exact number of lines creasing your lips."

"How many?"

"Six hundred and thirty nine," he replies automatically.

"Amazing," she gasps.

"I can hear the instant contraction of your heart muscle in response as you realize you're being hunted. Not just the beat, mind you, but the actual muscle itself. All of your muscles. I know where you'll run before you do." He traces the green lace at the top of her nightgown, creating the effect he wants to describe next. "Endorphins suddenly flood your entire body. They are sharp smelling and maddening and make my fangs spring loose. Every gush and gurgle in the veins drives us toward our prey." He pulls her thick brunette braid back, exposing his maker's mark. "Your pores suddenly bloom with heat and sweat, telling me a hundred different things about who you are and where you've been. It makes my throat burn with hunger."

"And…the taste?" she dares to press. She knows she's playing with fire, but it's fascinating.

He laughs. "Honestly, with you I couldn't say exactly," he confides, running a thumb over the two perfect crimson dots on her neck, invisible to all but his kind. Impulsively, he leans in and inhales the column of her throat. She jumps to have him so close and places a hand on his pectoral, as if she could hold him back. His cool breathe is accompanied by the lightest tickling graze of a fang.

"You're afraid of me being so close and a little excited too…"

"Nuh…"

"Tssshhh…Don't lie. The blood sings all your secrets to me. Right here, you can't see it, but there are two ruby drops of ancient vampire blood. It's incredibly distracting. It screams of power. When you are frightened, it is even louder in its threat. Did you not see some of the younger vampires flailing out of your way when you left the gala? It's terrifying to them. But to me…" he takes another heady draft. "…to me it's truly the last thing I ate as a human, if you must know. It's the only thing I've ever really wanted to drink since."

"Alright, back off, then. You're freaking me out."

Eric makes no move to give her space. He strokes the spot on her neck in fascination. The artery underneath causes the blood sealed there to shimmer and leap. "I couldn't touch it if I wanted to," he murmurs, entranced. "We're built to be incapable of descending our fangs against our makers, especially to reach their blood."

"Even after you're released?"

He narrows his eyes. His entire demeanor suddenly shuts down into something cold and masked.

"Where did you hear that?"

"Oh…I was just guessing. They make a big deal about it on tv."

"That's a big word in a mortal's mouth." He's goes to fiddle with the lock on the food carousel, as if it is suddenly fascinating. What he says next, he does with his back turned. "You cannot tell anyone. Almost no one knows."

"I didn't mean to intrude."

"We remain bonded by mutual choice."

"It's fine, Eric. I'm sorry I said anything."

He joins her at the table, not willing to meet her stare, she unwilling to meet his. They sit in silence.

"I tried to ask Godric and he commanded me to stay silent, so I have to wait for you to tell me about it," he says cryptically.

"About what?"

He grits his teeth. "About _it_."

"That night?" she asks.

He rolls his eyes. They sounded like a bad Abbot and Costello routine. "Yes, fuck, t_hat _night," he growls. "You do understand that I am physically incapable of breaking a command, yes? I cannot ask a question about it."

She gives a nervous laugh. "Here I was grateful this whole time that you weren't grilling me for answers I probably don't have."

"You just pried out one of my closest guarded secrets. Recounting this fucking…thing…" he grinds out, clearly struggling, "shouldn't be too difficult."

"Oh, watch your mouth. Now you're just being rude."

"Talk, wench."

"That night, he seemed so lost and disconnected, yet totally impenetrable. You, mister, were drowning in women and totally ignoring him. So I got up and asked him what was wrong."

"Uh huh." Eric pitches forward in his chair to listen.

"He took one look at me and basically told me I was no better than a drunkard up in his face. I don't think he appreciated my prodding."

As severe as Eric's expression is, he can't help but lean his head back and chuckle through closed eyes. "_Þú lítir vætr eigi heill._"

"What's that?"

"The first thing that savage ever said to me."

"What does it mean?"

"Basically that I looked like shit."

It's Ros' turn to laugh. "He has a funny way of making friends, no?"

"Yes, but he keeps them. He does everything ferociously."

"He didn't seem like that with me. He was so gentle and sweet. Well, I guess a little intense. Er….maybe a lot intense."

"That sounds par for the course."

"He didn't want to cause me pain, though. I think he liked that I'd never been bitten and wasn't into that sort of thing. He got upset about wound afterwards. It didn't hurt, but he said it would have an ugly bruise. Then he healed it."

"Explain."

"I don't know. He suddenly freaked out that someone else might bite me and he made me promise never to let anyone feed off me but him."

"Yeah…"

"There's not more, really." She lapses into thought.

"You don't know why he's refusing to eat, do you." It isn't a question.

Eric clenches his jaw. "No. Our family physician could find nothing wrong with him."

"I didn't realize vampires had doctors. Did you try a psychologist?"

"Please. Can you see a vampire blubbering on a couch about his troubles and how it all stems from how his maker never bit him enough as a yearling? We don't work that way. Anyways, we were both made when the idea of confession meant nothing more than admitting to something under torture. We don't put much stock in self-purification through verbal diarrhea."

"I don't hold any illusions that Gordric has probably done some horrific things in his long life. Are you sure he's not suffering through some moral torment? "

"He's never liked organized religion - to put it mildly. Moral codes change more often and faster than you'd suspect."

"So much has changed for you. It must be hard."

He scoffs. "Change is the only constant in our lives, Ros."

She sucks at her teeth in chagrin. They are nowhere closer to having an answer. "We're going to figure it out, Eric. I promise I'll do what I can to help you."

She reaches across the table to give his hand a squeeze. He allows her this small display.

"We need a plan. And you…you need better soap. Dr. Bronner's isn't going to cut it anymore."

Ros yanks her hand away, horrified. "God you're rude!"

"You have to stop using that hippy dippy shit. You need something with detergent."

"Detergents ruin the environment!"

"Yeah, but they are strong enough to remove the vampire off of you. So far I've touched your left arm, your neck, your wrists, the cloth around your waist, and both sides of your right hand. Do you really want to be reeking of me when we finally get you and Godric back together?"

"Oh…well…jeez! Why did you just say so?"

"I told you. I _like_ when you get riled up." He gives her an impish wink and finishes off the O negative, chucking the bottle into the recycling bin situated on the far side of the room. It's a perfectly clean toss.

"Now, let's get down to brass tacks. I think you're familiar with my – how shall we say – charming persistence?"

"God yes. You're a stubborn ass."

"Yeah well, brace yourself because Godric is literally the immovable object and the unstoppable force wrapped into one. We need to find a way to get him to do what he already wants to do without him realizing he's doing it. And it would be really nice for me if he only minimally suspects the extent of my meddling. I'm too pretty to die by dismemberment…"

* * *

**A/N:** Hi all! I know this was a little on the short side but the next chapter is already written and coming right up (spoiler: it's ALL Godric!). I'm so tickled that this story is at 100 reviews! Thank you awesome readers!

Please review. Box is right there! -V


	7. Chapter 7

Godric sits crouched on the ledge of the Bank of America Plaza building. The wind is still hot, even at these heights, and it whips angrily around him. He watches the clamoring city below, its little toy cars and little ant people scuttling in sensible lines and 90 degree turns, obeying the rules of the concrete jungle in jagged stop-go motions. He winces. This is supposedly his town. His "domain." Looking out from his perch, he cannot muster even a flicker of sentiment for it.

It isn't Dallas in particular that he finds offensive. It's the total, mind-numbing practicality of it. This is simply a space whose boundaries proved convenient. Eric was the pioneer, taking a little chunk of territory just out of the sightline of New Orleans. Clever, scheming child. When the supernatural mecca of the Americas finally sinks into the bayou, as it is certain to do, they would all come running to his door. Godric's own decision to move to the States had been delayed and avoided and delayed a little more until neither he nor his progeny could bear it any longer. The powers that be offered him all of Texas, which he refused outright. Only a sadist would agree to take on that much paperwork. Austin was already claimed and the area to the north of his child was also unacceptable. It was too close to another ancient like himself. So here he was, the unwilling lord over an unwanted land.

Godric has never been overly attached to the cosmopolitan, though he couldn't say exactly why. Perhaps it is because he is an untamed wanderer at heart. The whispering thwack of his bare feet racing along damp forest soil and fallen leaves was his only companion for a millennium. Once he had Eric at his side, however, all that changed. Bit by bit, he indulged his child's curiosity and allowed himself to be dragged to those lively centers of yesteryear. There was Carthage and Kiev Rus. Prague and Paris. Londinium and Lisboa, and of course, every so often, his unhappiest of homes, Rome. They would hunt and feed and fight, picking off peasants and princes with indifference, amusing themselves with petty intrigues and diversions before moving on. Along the way he mastered more tongues than anyone could possibly have use for and saw more of the world than anyone need see.

For centuries he's been perfectly content with this routine. He's had his projects, of course. He's always been a bit of a tinkerer - a mad scientist, as his child liked to say. His involvement in the Great Reveal is only the latest experiment. It is fascinating to give the world a nudge every so often and watch how it reverberates.

Only recently has his routine started to niggle at him and feel unsatisfactory. Three months ago, to be precise. Only now does it seem like…not enough. The humans fight the same wars, over and over again with only minor fugues to differentiate each iteration. The supernatural creatures are no better, squabbling and destroying each other for inane ends. Upheavals and downfalls – it all averages out into a flat line of births and deaths, comings and goings. The same revolutions give rise to the same old abuses. 'But the inventions!' some might protest. Even the latest trinkets and ideas have become incurably impatient. Everything is a click away. Nothing has finesse. It is an untenable pace, he is certain, this ravenous scramble for the next and the new. No one can race toward the infinite forever. One needs to savor things before moving along. It's a philosophy that has served him well for over two millennia. Yet somehow this restlessness had found its way inside.

Godric leaps, headlong, over the tower's edge. He lets gravity grab at his body, unrelenting, pulling him in for a deadly embrace. It gives him a tiny thrill, the idea of Earth's possessiveness. She wants her objects smashed against her uncaring bosom. At well over 900 feet, it might even put a dent in him. But not today. He tucks his knees and rolls several turns before spreading his arms and landing, neatly, knees slightly bent. His sudden appearance terrifies an elderly woman. She is walking a ridiculous dog with furry bat ears and it yaps at him furiously in surprise. He hisses at it and it leaps into the dame's arms. She hurls an insult at him that makes others turn and he shrugs and crosses the street, leaving them staring.

On the ground he stalks through throngs of people. He prefers to do security patrols himself at regular intervals, though he has plenty of underlings who are more than capable. It strikes him as sloppy to not know the terrain he commands. But that isn't why he's hitting the pavement tonight. He knows his irritability is making everyone in his nest miserable. Isabelle does her best to defuse the tension in her gentle, unobtrusive way. Only Eric is daring enough to pester him with constant questions. But Godric does not yet have any answers to give.

He pauses outside a vampire owned bar before going into a drugstore on a whim. The rushing whoosh of the automated doors greets him with a blast of refrigerated air. Inside, the harsh lighting flares almost painfully in his vision and the buzz of the filaments whines in his ears. He wanders down an aisle, fingering boxes and bottles. Some time ago he trained as a medical doctor, but the sheer array of supplements and devices and medicaments for human bodies had quadrupled since then. He is examining the latest colloidal silver products available (always good to stay up to date on this front) when an assistant manager sidles up to him.

"Can I help you find anything?"

"No," he says.

"I'm certain you'll find this section more pleasurable," she hints, walking down to the prophylactics. "Have you tried this?" She waggles a container of personal lubricant at him. A quick glance at the packaging reveals that it is supposed to create a sensation of heat for those bothered by the coolness of their vampire lovers' skin.

"No," he snorts. Apparently the product is for those with a naïve understanding of the basic principles of friction and heat diffusion.

"Do you want to try it…?" She gestures to the bathroom in the corner of the store.

His nose flares at her obvious arousal. This is not the first time she has done this, he can tell. "The only thing you're going to get inside that bathroom is killed." He turns on his heel and makes for the exit, thoroughly galled, but not before two teenagers in the checkout line giggle and point at him.

Once he has finished working through the downtown area, Godric moves on to a residential neighborhood where V dealing has been on the rise. The apartment complexes are stacked like dilapidated boxes, piling human lives on top of one another in a jumble. At least the breathers left a few pathetic trees here. They cleave to the cramped plots of soil allotted to them in regular breaks of the sidewalk. In sympathy, he touches the brown, curling leaves of an especially spindly one.

He decides to pass through a nearby park and makes a left turn. It takes him out of the alley and back onto a main road. It's then that a faint but persistent thump draws his attention. The sash of a window is pulled up by a tiny human clad in white jammies printed with red fire trucks.

"Are you a tooth fairy?" he loudly whispers into the night. There is no one else on the street save for a few animals scavenging garbage. Godric looks down at his clothes and wonders if perhaps they had caused the confusion. He was wearing a rather exotic looking tunic made of very fine linen. Isabelle often sewed him things like this; she liked knowing that each stitch was placed with purpose and care. He hoped it didn't make him look like a cursed sprite. It must be the streetlamps, he decides. They always make him look especially ethereal to mortals.

"I'm no fairy," he admits with a little laugh.

"Oh," the lad says, crestfallen.

"Are you expecting one?"

"Yeah, see," he points to a gummy gap in his smile. Godric steps cautiously towards the window. "I've been waiting all night, but she hasn't come. I think there's a monster under my bed," he explains confidentially.

"That's highly unusual." Monsters didn't hide under beds. He would know.

"Can you check? Mommy won't wake up."

"Why don't you look yourself?"

He shakes his head vigorously in fear. "Pleassse," he begs, the offending gap giving him a slight lisp.

Godric cocks an ear and focuses on the heavy snoring from the room beyond. The heart rate sounds slightly depressed. Doped with pharmaceuticals, he suspects, leaving the poor little bean to fend for himself. Tonight is not looking promising for a show of humanity's finest.

He sighs and climbs in without a proper invitation, dropping easily to the carpeted floor. The recent discovery that a few of the constraints binding his kind were starting to peel away for him was disturbing, to say the least. Everyone needs limits.

The vampire makes a show of checking first under the bed and then inside the closet.

"All clear. I think your Fae tooth thief won't come until you fall sleep," he says.

The boy nods and watches as Godric picks up a Lego man and inspects it, then sets it down. He glamours him to think that the tooth fairy did indeed make an appearance, warning the boy to never allow strangers into his home again. As he takes his leave, he slips a small bill under the pillow in accordance with the funny human custom.

In the park, he flings the handsome little incisor into the bushes. The only tooth he cared to have in his possession – one of Eric's original fangs - was safely tucked in a vault in Switzerland.

Godric crosses the soccer field. The vegetation here has been sprayed with a fine mist of toxic chemicals to kill the weeds and force the grass to suck up whatever nutrition the ground can yield. It is acrid and stings his nose. Thankfully, he finds no one is out trying to peddle blood, so he lies down on a merry-go-round in the playground. It spins creakily and makes the stars circle overhead. A car pulls up and he hears the telltale scratching crackle of a mobile radio unit. The officer approaches, but he doesn't bother to get up.

"Son? You ain't s'posed to be here. Park closes at 9pm."

"I'll be on my way," he says impassively.

"Boy, you best get up an' git. Now."

Godric raises his head and rolls to a sit.

"Oh Jesus and Mary!" he cries and reaches for his gun. He draws it shakily. "Now you listen here you fanger, I got this loaded with wooden bullets. Git the hell out of here."

"Seriously?" Godric stands and the officer cocks the weapon. "You'd shoot a person for sitting quietly in a public space?"

"Fff..fffuckin' go on! Disperse!"

In a flash so fast the man is nearly knocked down, Godric has the gun in his hand, the magazine on the ground, and the slide pulled back, popping the remaining bullet in the chamber through the air. He catches it in an outstretched hand and takes a single menacing step forward.

So terrifying is the diminutive, pale angel of death before him that the policeman's bladder lets loose. Godric looks down at the stinking hot stream of urine leaking onto the man's shiny shoes.

"This bullet? It is made of an oak that was three times your age. You would use it to gun down something many, many times older than that. Why? Simply because you are afraid of it? Because I am different?" He pulverizes the pellet to dust between two fingers, giving a clear visual of exactly what he might do to the soft-tissued human before him.

"Ah, ah, um…" the man blubbers, holding his hands in front of him in some feeble plea for pardon.

"Humans cut down ancient trees as old as me just to make toilet paper to wipe the filth from their bodies. Is _that_ the value of life to you? Is that the value of _my _life!?" he demands. He is seething now and not entirely sure whom he is asking. "Get out of my sight. If you ever draw a weapon on a vampire again and I hear of it," he glances at his badge, "I will make sure that it is for the last time, Officer R. Smith, Number 9063."

He takes to the sky, dismayed that the patrol has only worsened his fractious mood. When he storms through the front door of his residence, the few vampires in the nest scramble to get out of his way. Godric strips, leaving a trail of his clothing down the hallway, and dives into the far end of the pool, letting himself sink to the bottom. He screams in a furious column of bubbles.

Surrounded in this watery cocoon, the pleasant, low hum of the pump drowns out the better part of the constant buzz and drone of the house's electronics. It's here that he must confront what he already knows. He's frighteningly on edge and barely in control and it has nothing to do with urban life or noisy technology or even the zombie humans. It's him.

And it's _her. _

He begins swimming laps, his body a slick muscled torpedo, a streak of limbs and azure ink underwater. Godric swims for hours, well past dawn. It's yet another useless perk of his age – the sunrise no longer predictably lulls him into a peaceful sleep. Sometimes it does, other times he is left up to his own devices. It would have been convenient if his insomnia had been granted alongside immunity to the sun's rays, but alas, he'd tested it, with spectacularly failed results. So a Gollum he would have to remain, lurking in the dark even at the height of day. What a bummer.

He had fervently hoped that his experimentation with various fasts would help dampen his powers and help with the insomnia, but it didn't really do much in the end. He barely needs blood these days and he can't explain his actions to Eric. His child would never understand why he would purposefully want to weaken himself and he certainly doesn't need to be given another reason to (very wrongly) treat his maker like a living god. More importantly, he doesn't wish to burden him further with more of his dangerous secrets. Eric already tended a boneyard of these on his behalf.

Around noon, it suddenly dawns on him that he's obsessively pacing the pool like a manic animal. It's getting him nowhere. _Damn. _He stills. Then he slips out of the water in a single motion and swaddles himself in an oversized towel.

In his study, his hands know where the book waits without looking. It falls open to the page without searching. A brittle orange flower, preserved at the height of its bloom, lay there flat and undying. It is not the largest text he owns, nor is it even rare, but the tome of E.E. Cummings' collected works is filled with elegant and unexpected words that remind him of the woman he met in the desert.

Godric very gently pushes the poppy aside and rereads the poem he chose to keep it company.

* * *

**plant Magic dust**

expect hope doubt

(wonder mistrust)

despair

and right

where soulless our

(with all their minds)

eyes blindly stare

life herSelf stands

* * *

He sits on the floor spread eagle in his dark blue terrycloth, book between his legs, and lets his mind revisit that night. The fearless, passionate woman he'd encountered had insisted he was somehow cosmically connected to all creation. To the delicate blossom under his fingertips. To the rock and the valley and the soaring, infinite skies. To her. She said it so easily and with such conviction and…wonder. He had almost forgotten that particular feeling existed.

He thinks of the way his desert beauty stared unflinching in his eyes and how her gaze reflected the most improbable of things - awe. Of him! He remembers her touch, their music, each moan. How her erotic kiss made him weak in the knees and stole the breathe that he didn't even need from his chest. He thinks of the rumble of her laugh against his teeth in her throat and the pulsing pleasure she gave - and he took.

It is this thought that always proves fatal to his reveries. It is where the symmetry ends – indeed, where it dies on his very lips. He is vampire. He takes and does not give. He deals only in death. She radiates life. The woman accused him of sharing something with her, but he still cannot fathom what he has to offer. The question gnaws at him. He wants answers but he increasingly suspects he will not find them in himself.

Since their paths crossed, the memory of her has slowly drained the color from everything else. It has made his life feel unbearably dull in comparison. He's never seen someone so enamored of the world. The simple rarity of seeing something unanticipated is only part of his fascination. It is also how her joy was so pure and unrestrained. He wants it and yet he fears for how easily he would destroy it. He wants to see the world anew through her eyes. He wants to what? Connect? _Yes_, he reasons. This must be what he wants. But a vampire cannot cling to the impermanent. Time would ravage him! Nostalgia is an anchor cast of anguish for his kind. He could easily drown in the swift undertow of the past. A sense of foreboding settles over him.

Godric slips the book back in its place on the shelf. He walks the room, not feeling the slightest bit tired. He is pacing again, poor caged beast that he is. The postcards in his desk remain firmly under lock and key and he studiously avoids them. They are untraceable and all written in the same hand. They taunt him with wondrous, seductive visions. Their very existence feels like a dare. He is being provoked, but who would even be so bold?

His mind hauntingly supplies the answer. _You want this provocation to be from her. _Something sour curdles in his throat. It has an off flavor and tastes suspiciously like fear. What if it is not her?

Doubt and desire circle in his head in a vicious parade. In the past he has played with others lives like a child spinning tops. He wound them up and set them loose, happy to see how things would careen out of control and topple. But he has never been _connected_ to whatever results he's generated. He _never_ toys with his own life. He doesn't know this game. It is new and thrilling, but the rules are unknown and the objective still unclear. His head tells him to savor this sense of novelty, but he finds he does not like it. Not at all.

Several hours later, his body finally decides to start the bleeds, but by then it is dusk. He is on the floor again, flat on his back.

"What the hell is wrong with me!" he finally bellows out loud, slamming his head against the parquet. He is being completely and utterly ridiculous. He's let himself grow unnerved by a silly human woman.

He makes a split second decision. Fuck patience, as his Eric would say.

"Isabelle," he calls. His second in command instantly materializes in the doorway. "I need to speak with Amleth."

"Right away, Sheriff."

Minutes later she hands him the phone.

"Lord Godric," the familiar voice responds.

"You sound like you're talking through a tin can. I trust you are well?"

"I am. What can I do for you?"

"You can still trace Eric's accounts, yes?"

Amleth is the only creature alive that Godric trusts with such delicate family business. Though he had been turned by another, Amleth looked to him as a second maker of sorts and had always treated Eric with the amused tolerance of an older brother.

"Of course," he replies. The raven-haired vampire is sitting at his desk in the London financial district as they speak.

"I need you to find someone. A mortal woman about 30 years old. She would have popped up on his radar three months ago. He won't have her on any regular payroll; look for large transfers or any pattern of unexplained expenditures. It's probably buried pretty well."

"Who's he trying to woo now?"

"Believe it or not, no one."

"Get out. Well, color me intrigued, old friend."

"Call me if you find anything."

"I'm already on it."

In the living room of the Dallas mansion, Isabelle cannot help but overhear the conversation. She looks over at the settee where their grisly cowboy assassin sits reading an old copy of _America's Civil War Magazine_.

_"_Thank God!" she mouths silently, shaking her fists in victory. Stan looks up from his article and shrugs in disinterest.

Not twenty minutes later, Isabelle's awful little cellular device starts screeching and buzzing. Godric answers with a grunt.

"Got her. You were right; it wasn't exactly easy."

He sighs in relief. In some matters, his child was blessedly predictable. After catching Eric speaking with the woman at the festival, he knew what his next three moves would be before the Viking himself did. But still. Some little part of him was terrified he'd miscalculated.

"Go on," he says coolly.

"He liquidated some of his holdings in that shipping concern you all started in the '60s then moved it all around in about a hundred different directions. But you'll love this…"

"Yes?"

"Eric has been throwing cash at her consistently for months."

"I assumed."

"She's sent it all back."

Godric erupts in laughter and quickly covers his mouth, realizing everyone in the house would have heard. Still, it was too delightful. He can only imagine how bedeviled his child must be.

"Did she now?" he says, steadying his composure.

"Yep. What do you want on her? I've got everything that was immediately available – family, background check, credit history…"

"No!" he barks. "Sorry…I mean…I just wanted to confirm that you could track her down." Amleth is silent for a long moment, trying to gauge Godric's peculiar behavior.

"Shall I keep tabs on her then?"

"No. No, that won't be necessary."

"Okay. Everything alright? I can be on the next flight out of here if you need me."

"No, all is well, child. Keep this between us."

"Suit yourself. Call if you want anything else."

Amleth goes to hang up.

"Wait!" Godric hisses.

"Yes?"

"What…what is her name? Just her first name."

Amleth is stunned again by his ancient friend.

"Her name is Roslyn. Her friends call her Ros."

"Roslyn," he breathes. A fine shiver of goosebumps settles over his skin.

* * *

**A/N**: Oh gosh, readers! What do you think? It seems like everyone is scheming now. I struggled a bit with this chapter. The first draft went down the rabbit hole of darkness and depression (obvs. I was a little bummed about TB ending...[no further comment on that mess]). Second pass had me still unsure how to write a Godric that is unsure of himself. Let me know if it works. Things are REALLY going to move fast next chapter. HINT- I WILL be bumping the rating up to M for the next update.

Extra thanks to my regular reviewers & perpetual cheerleaders (ElvenVamp, Melanctha86, Meridiean, Midnat, Royal Ember and other people I'm probably forgetting bc it is late!). Also a shout out to anonimouscsifan - thanks for the lovely guest reviews.

P.S. Requests for better Godric garb were taken into consideration. There were a number of suit suggestions, so I decided on a birthday suit for all of you. He'll be in a real suit next chapter. And also maybe a birthday suit again, if you're very very good (or very bad...suppose it depends). ;F


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